


from the threshold of the year to come

by Sol1056



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Military Backstory, Minor Allura/Lotor (Voltron), Minor Lance/Pidge | Katie Holt, Multi, Mutual Idiocy, Mutual Pining, Office Romance, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn, Technical Jargon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-04-28 19:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14456586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sol1056/pseuds/Sol1056
Summary: A new prosthesis, a new job, a new team... Shiro might've found a place he belongs, where he can settle down and get his life together. Too bad that's exactly when he meets the one person who'll turn it all upside-down again."This is Dr Shirogane," Allura tells the gathered teams. "He teaches physics at the university."Shiro can feel his ears getting hot. He's wearing jeans and biker boots, for christ's sake. It's his day off. At least she keeps the introduction simple. If she goes into a recitation of his speciality, he's ready to diffuse the confusion with a joke about studying rocket science. It's one of the only benefits after so many sleepless nights writing his dissertation.





	1. Chapter 1

Shiro pulls the Harley into the next parking lot, cruising slowly between the rows of cars until he finds the front of the building. Glass-and-steel like the rest in this pocket-sized section of high rises on the western outskirts of the city. He digs out his phone, swiping through his notes to find the address he'd copied from Allura's text.

The right building, and he's not too late. A row of motorcycle parking along the front, and he takes the open spot between a sparkly green Valkyrie and a bright-yellow Indian one step shy of a rat bike. His black Harley looks like a crouching beast next to the sleeker machines.

He pulls off his helmet, finger-combing his hair out of however it'd ended up mashed against his head, and drops the helmet into the panniers. With the wheels locked, he's stalled as much as he can allow, and it's time to walk into the two-story lobby of cool marble floors and modern chairs arranged in two small seating areas.

Shiro gives his name at the desk, fumbles with his wallet to get out his ID, and accepts a guest badge. It takes three tries to get his ID back into his wallet, and he finally shoves his ID in with his cash. An hour and a half on the bike, and his arm's almost numb.

He tightens the muscles of his right arm, watching the prosthetic fingers curl and straighten. It's been years since he's been on a bike that long, and maybe he should've taken the train, after all. But it was such a beautiful day, and he'd woken in a rare light-hearted mood.

"Shiro!" Allura's voice echoes off the stark interior, her heels clicking as she strides towards him, arms open. So much for professional behavior.

Shiro grins, accepting the hug, returning her kiss on his cheek with one on hers. She slides an arm around his waist. For a moment Shiro can sense their younger selves, staggering home from celebrating their shared victory in particle image velocimetry.

"Thank you for letting the team be present," she says, giving his leather jacket and black jeans a sideways look. "You'll fit right in."

"Is it too late to change my mind?" Shiro asks, only partly-teasing.

He's had years of doing the rounds thanks to the government footing the bill. Private medicine is something else, though, and this is at least sixteen steps above that. He's used to ranks of white-coated technicians studying readouts while he's fitted out, and in return, he gets to be on the military's posters for how well they treat their cast-offs.

"No, it's not," Allura says. The elevator doors slid shut, enclosing them in privacy. "How're you doing, Dr Shirogane?"

"Teaching isn't all it's cracked up to be, I think." Shiro sighs, reflexively tightening his muscles again.

Once he would've felt the warm solidity of Allura's shoulder under his casual embrace. Now he just aches. The ride took more out of him than he'd expected, as much as he'd enjoyed it.

"This team's pretty amazing," Allura says. "They can't make grading easier, though."

"It's not the grading. It's typing emails. Writing on the whiteboard…"

"I thought being called doctor meant your handwriting doesn't have to be legible."

Shiro relents with a laugh. "Yours is."

"I had to take an extra class to learn how to write again." Allura grins as the doors open. She slips out from under his arm, all business. "This way."

Through the glass doors and the tall reception desk, and a series of glass doors dividing the long space, Allura's badge is in her hand more than it's left at her hip. Allura points out the kitchen, insists he stop so she can get coffee. Cups in hand, they stroll the hall as she explains the movable conference rooms, divided only by rolling whiteboards. Another badge-swipe, another set of glass doors, and they're into a wide space, stretching across the entire floor.

Shiro cranes his neck, curious. Exposed ceilings, hanging whiteboards, a burble of voices. Nearly every standing desk is occupied by kids barely older than the ones Shiro's been teaching for a year.

"Now I really know I don't fit in," Shiro mutters. "Are you sure I'm not actually here on Take Your Kid to Work day?" Maybe he shouldn't have worn the tie, after all.

Allura arches a single brow at him.

Shiro raises both of his brows in return. "What?"

"You're such a dork," she mutters, but softens it with an elbow to his side. "Here we are."

She ushers him into a large room, more glass walls. It brings back memories of pilot testing, knowing lines of ranking officers and doctors watched from the other side of the glass. Here, though, everything is too shiny, too new, and honest enough that the glass is see-through.

And the room is packed with people. Shiro's a bit taken aback, and hopes he hides it. He'd been tempted to tease Allura about spending her days in fishbowls, but this is more like a bowl of sardines.

Allura raises her hands, bringing the room's chatter to silence. He'll need to ask her the trick, later. It takes him three tries to get his students to settle down, every class.

"This is Dr Shirogane," Allura tells them. "He teaches physics at the university."

Shiro can feel his ears getting hot. He's wearing jeans and biker boots, for christ's sake. It's his day off. At least she keeps the introduction simple. If she goes into a recitation of his speciality, he's ready to diffuse the confusion with a joke about studying rocket science. It's one of the only benefits after so many sleepless nights writing his dissertation.

"Engineers, represent?" Allura asks, and about fifteen hands go up. She gives Shiro a smile. "That's the engineering team that designed the chips inside the prosthetic. And the industrial designers are…" Six new hands come up. "There we go. The development team…" About a dozen hands go up, scattered across the room in and around the other two groups. "They wrote the software that lives on those chips."

Shiro nods, gives them his best professorial smile.

Allura holds out her hand, welcoming two more people into the open circle in the middle of the room. The crowd shifts, letting three people push over tables. Someone else brings two stools on wheels.

"This is Thace," Allura says, stepping back. "Head of the biomechatronics team."

Thace doesn't offer his right hand, but his left, as though it were perfectly natural. It's Shiro who ends up with a stutter in his motion, surprised and flattered all in one. Thace is nearly movie-star handsome, with the broad shoulders and height to go with the looks; he tops Shiro by at least three inches. The man beside him is even taller, pale and bald but for a thick cropped mohawk of white hair. He's wearing scruffy jeans beneath his trim labcoat, though.

Allura gives Shiro a pleased look. "And our head of—"

"Ulaz," the man says. "Skip the titles, you can have social hour afterwards."

That gets the audience whispering to each other, something about ice cream. Allura checks her phone, steps back, and leaves Shiro to the engineer and the doctor.

Shiro removes his jacket, drops it on the nearest empty table. Off with the tie, and is glad he took the time to put on an undershirt. He's not ashamed of his body, but some people get a little glassy-eyed when they register the scar on his face and the missing hand weren't the only damages from the crash. He settles onto one stool, letting Ulaz remove the military-issued prosthetic.

Another distinction from military medicine: Ulaz and Thace not only walk him through the dismantled replacement, they also have cutaway pieces, showing him the interior that will rest against his skin. He's invited to press fingertips in the gel substance the teams developed, stroke the fabric as fine as spiderwebs, each juncture terminating in a node barely larger than the head of a pin.

With his arm exposed to the chill of the room, Ulaz explains the steps, and supervises Shiro doing it himself. First, the sock, a net so fine it's almost gauze, yet its compression is no less substantial. Then a ring for his upper arm, molded to his biceps. The elbow-piece snaps into place, and finally the stump of his arm is inserted into the sleeve.

His new arm is a dull stainless steel, accented with black at the bend in his elbow, his wrists, and the joints of his new fingers. Ulaz points out the tiny notch for Shiro's thumbnail. A second later Shiro jolts in surprise as prickles run up and down his arm.

"It's—" He shakes his head, not sure how to describe the peculiar sensation of feeling his fingers, his palm, the back of his wrist. It's phantom, like always. He gives the two men a crooked smile. "I thought you meant one or two, not so many small ones."

"Now, to plug you in," Ulaz has Shiro open a port on the back of the hand. "It's just regular USB, nothing fancy about this part."

It's also a lurid hot pink. "I didn't think they came in this color," Shiro says, dutifully plugging his new hand into the system.

"Engineering," someone says from the back of the room. A few others laugh.

"Hey," someone else replies. "I'll stop buying the vision-damaging colors when the cords stop going walkabout."

"Alright, now we'll show you the secret sauce," Thace says, grinning from over his laptop.

He hits a few keys, and the two large monitors flare into life. Each displays a mess of information, graphs and charts and tables, worse than any heads-up display. Thace stands, and the crowd parts for him to point out each part and what it means.

"It's also bluetooth," Thace adds. "So the cord isn't entirely necessary. There's no headset jack, though, if you're wondering."

"So I can't just ditch my phone and use my arm instead?" Shiro bends his elbow, forcing the hand up. There's a strange sensation prickling under his skin, one he doesn't want to think too much about. "Tell me you at least put a very tiny camera in the fingertips."

"I told you so!" Someone bursts out from the back. "And y'all said no one would want that!"

Shiro laughs with the rest of the room, then almost yelps. He'd lowered his hand to the tabletop as support when he laughed, but his fingers had gripped the surface. He stares, faintly aware the room's fallen silent, waiting.

Carefully, Shiro raises his hand from the table, then presses one finger down. He pushes, harder, feeling the change in pressure. A second finger, then a third. Amazed, he drums his fingers once, twice.

He raises his hand, clenches it into a fist, turns his wrist one way, then the other. It could never be mistaken for his own hand, but as far as his mind's concerned, his body is whole for the first time in seven years.

His eyes sting, and he claps his left hand over his mouth. The room is utterly silent. Ulaz waits, impassive, while Thace stands by the monitor, expression neutral. Shiro manages to blink the tears from his eyes, gets his breathing under control, and lowers his hand. He can't stop moving his prosthetic. He stretches his fingers, curls them, wriggles them, even crosses two fingers. That last motion makes it suddenly real, somehow.

"Could I have—" He has to take a deep breath, terrified and hopeful. "Anyone have a pen and some paper?"

A moment later he's accepting paper from four different directions, and a glittery pink pen from a grinning Black woman stretching out her hand. Shiro is about to twist around to use his left hand, thinks twice, and uses his right. The prosthetic—no, it's his hand, now—takes the pen, and for a moment he's fascinated with turning it around, feeling the soft edges of the plastic grip, the hard edges of the clip, the rubbery clicker that drags a little along his fingertip's surface.

Shiro signs his name with his right hand, sees the signature he'd once known as himself, as much as his appearance and his voice. Another breath, and for the first time in seven years, he writes in Japanese. First his family name, then his own. He's spent seven years signing cards to distant elderly relatives with his English name, never able to reconcile the awkward scrawl of kanji from his left hand with who he was, inside. And now he's regained that.

Movement in the corner of his eyes, and Shiro snaps out of his daze to see Ulaz offering his hand. His right hand, this time.

Shiro takes it, marveling at Ulaz's strong grip, even the sense of warmth.

"Good?" Ulaz asks.

Shiro doesn't trust his voice. He just nods. Ulaz rolls back, both hands up in the air like a victory sign. The entire room explodes, and Shiro is left aghast, watching people jump up and down, hug, pound each other on the back. At least four of the engineers are crying, two of them grown men older than Shiro.

A stream of people leaving the room, shouting the news to everyone else on the floor, and cheers going up. Shiro spins on the stool, stunned, as the floor comes to its feet, people clapping over their heads, waving, cheering. He spins around again, startled to see Ulaz gone, and Thace occupying the seat instead.

"Ulaz isn't one for big displays." Thace has to bend close to be heard over the noise. He undoes the cord and closes the tiny hatch. "Besides, he's probably headed to get himself a bowl of ice cream before the hordes descend."

"How is it?" Allura asks, settling a hand on Shiro's shoulder. "The ice cream can wait, if you want to take a walk."

"No, I'm—" Shiro catches Thace's patient smile, and decides he can be selfish, a little. "Actually, yeah. I'd like that."

Shiro pulls on his shirt, buttoning it up and then unbuttoning just for the joy of feeling all ten fingers occupied in the task. He slings the tie around his neck, rolls up his sleeves, and picks up his jacket. They stroll the wide corridors, not talking much. Shiro's too busy trailing his fingers along the wall, feeling the edges of posters, running his hand over things.

When he recalls he has a second hand and brings the two together, Allura has to steer him out of the way of oncoming people. He's too busy using one hand to explore the other. Eventually he looks up, knowing his smile is probably sheepish.

"I keep waiting for you to tell me I'm not three," he says, and wriggles his fingers. All ten.

"I think you've earned the right," Allura says. "But if you take off those heavy boots in my division and start playing with your toes, we're gonna have words."

"I'll keep that in mind." He grins, following her through another set of doors to the area at the opposite end of the floor.

It's quieter, here, and not so dominated by people ten years his junior. Still the same monochromatic seating areas in shades of lime green, the rolling whiteboards, the standing desks. Allura strides ahead, turning around to walk backwards.

"I want you to see what this one team is up to," she says. "Technically they're not in my division, they're in Transformation, but this is sort of a side-project three of them came up with. I helped them create their pitch for funding."

She pushes open the door to another glass-walled conference room, empty of tables or chairs. Three of the walls are whiteboards, floor to ceiling covered with notes and drawings from four different people. The sweeping, angular hand, he knows is Allura's. Another is round and bold, all lower-case. A third is a mix of cursive and plain, and the fourth… Shiro thumbs his hand—his right hand—at the all-caps notes marching across one of the walls.

"Engineer?" Shiro asks.

"How did you guess?" Allura leans back against the door jamb. There's writing and sticky notes stuck to the glass, as well. "Go ahead, look now while it's quiet."

Shiro isn't sure what he's looking at, but he's too happy for the first time in too long to care. He suspects he'd even go dancing, if Allura were to ask right then. He drops his jacket against the glass wall and studies the nearest whiteboard. Once he figures out where the notes start, roughly, he works his way down, tilting his head at the sketches. Sticky notes cover almost everything, like written asides: ideas, criticisms, suggestions.

Once he gets the gist, he backpedals to a crucial point that someone circled at least eight times in great swoops. He looks around for whiteboard pens. Allura clears her throat, holding out two—black and red—with an innocent expression.

Shiro scrunches his nose at her, but takes the black pen. He uses red enough for grading papers. Without even thinking, he puts his right hand to the board. It's not the soft rubber of his old prosthetic. He snaps back before he scratches the board, and instead uses his left hand to wipe off the last three lines in the equation.

"We do have whiteboard erasers." Allura sounds more amused than irked.

"Right," Shiro says, mind running too fast to pay much attention. He redoes the line, correcting the math, finishes the equation, and adds a dotted line to the rough graph. "That's better."

He steps back, idly capping and uncapping the pen, tracing the impact of the changed results across the boards. He makes a few notes, crosses a few conclusions out and enters the corrected values. By the time he turns full circle, he's startled to see Allura still leans against the door, arms crossed, her smile affectionate.

For a split-second, she's nineteen again, debating a particularly thorny physics problem in their study group. Skinnier, white hair in a short ponytail, brown skin flushed with the joy of hammering home a point and winning the argument. Corporate life means she traded the university sweatshirt for a silk blouse and tailored jacket, but her smile hasn't changed.

Shiro curls his right hand into a fist, then lets his fingers relax.

"I can never repay you for this, in any way." His voice is dangerously close to cracking. "I'm almost afraid to ask the universe what I did to deserve you as my friend."

"I believe it started when you spilled coffee on me." Allura steps forward, arms open.

Shiro hugs her, and the fingers of his prosthetic cradle the back of her neck, like he's not been able to do in years. She makes a sound like a sob, and he buries his head on her shoulder. They rock for several moments, both overwhelmed. When they break apart, he wipes her eyes with a fingertip, and she does the same for him.

"There's got to be an expiration date on guilt trips," Shiro says.

"I've got a scrapbook of every picture from every trip." Allura waves a hand at the walls, visibly straightens her expression. "So, what do you think? Doable?"

"Well." Shiro casts his gaze across the three boards, letting the vision shape in his head. "It's got a lot of moving parts, and could use some improvements… but yeah, I think it could be cool."

"Improvements? Like what?"

Shiro points at one of the sketches. "This is the drone, right? These are… antennae?"

"No, I think they're legs?" Allura shrugs. "We hired Lance for his ability to get engineers and designers to work together without killing each other. Any artistic skill was a plus."

"What artistic skill," Shiro mutters, half to himself. "Anyway." He draws quickly, efficiently, delighted that the phrase 'like riding a bike' is true now, too. "So if we have arms here and here, the drone could actively fend off obstacles—" He switches to another sketch, tapping the pen on it. "The weight's imbalanced, but—actually, that's ingenious. Who wrote this?"

"That would be Hunk," Allura said, a little smug. "He's our control systems engineering guy. Got his master's at Polytech."

Shiro whistles. "And he's here, instead of—" He breaks off, grin growing when Allura rolls her eyes. "These notes, though. Are they even in English?" He tilts his head, not really sure what he's looking at.

"Probably the team's developer," Allura says. "Head of the avionics team."

Shiro waits, brows raised.

"No degree." Allura shakes her head. "Actually, the three on this team are sort of the company oddballs. Hunk's story is he went to school to major in business so he could open a restaurant, walked into the wrong classroom on his first day as a freshman, and walked out an engineer. You know Pidge's story. Fast-track to serious time for hacking, until—"

"Wait, Pidge?" Shiro cuts Allura off, astonished. "Matt's scrawny kid sister? _This_ is where she works?"

Allura cuts him off in turn. "Careful. If she realizes you were never listening about her new job, who knows what she'll do in revenge."

Shiro laughs and taps on the third unidentified handwriting. "And your third oddball?"

"Lance. Masters in Human-Computer Interaction. He told me he'd always figured the army was his ticket out of a small town. Turns out middle-ear surgery as a kid… and his recruiter talked him into applying to college, instead."

"You're the patron saint of oddballs, Allura." Shiro laughs, hands up, when Allura pretends to shoo him off.

She'd been a second-year in fashion design, until the day Shiro turned too fast and ran right into her. Coffee had ended up all over her, and Shiro's physics exam—and she'd taken one look at his only wrong answer and told him how to fix it. He'd bought her a new sweatshirt as apology, and his first-year textbooks on physics. She switched her major within a semester.

"It sounds like a good team." Shiro drops the whiteboard pens, kicking them out of the way. "I'd be interested in seeing where they go with the ideas."

Allura looks smug. "Too bad they don't have someone who knows dynamic aeroelasticity."

"Yeah, that'd be a…" Shiro trails off, blinking, then shakes his head. "No. No way. I only moved into my place a year ago. I haven't even unpacked fully."

"Oh, sure, deal with that first," Allura agrees. "Way more important than getting a drone to navigate an asteroid cloud."

"I have papers to grade. And I accepted three classes next semester," Shiro adds. "And I live two hours away from here."

"Right, that's a horrible commute. Definitely."

"I signed a year's lease."

"Ten months ago."

"It's been a long year," Shiro says, knowing he's losing the argument. "And final exams are coming up."

Allura nods thoughtfully. "Is it an essay exam?"

"What? Of course not, just multiple-choice—" Too late, he realizes his mistake. "It's still grading and I should take it seriously."

Her smile is wicked.

"I can't, Allura." Shiro inches towards the door. "It's very exciting what your teams are doing but—I'm fine." He sees his hand, reaching for the bar on the glass door. "Finer, even. But fine."

"Sure, sure," Allura says, following him out of the room. "Let's go see if there's any ice cream left."

No ice cream, but there's cake, and an hour later he's shaken everyone's hand at least twice, it seems. Allura does have other duties, so he's left to do his final check with Thace and Ulaz, thankfully without the audience. In the lab, too, which means no fishbowl walls.

"Does the glass not get on your nerves after awhile?" Shiro asks. "Seeing everything, I mean."

"Keeps the kids from getting out of hand," Thace says. "Okay, plug that in, and we'll download this app."

"Is it for a camera?" Shiro wriggles his fingers. "Like a spy-camera."

"We'll put it on the list of nice-to-haves for version two." Ulaz's tone is so deadpan, Shiro can't tell if the man's joking. Shiro gives Thace a baffled look, but Thace merely winks at him.

Mid-afternoon he's done. Not entirely free, since Allura cornered him into finally agreeing to have her and her husband up for dinner at Shiro's place. Which means he probably needs more than one chair, and a dining room table. And maybe the ability to actually cook.

A month passes, enough time to adjust to having two fully-working hands again. He makes the drive twice more for diagnostics and a few system patches, though Ulaz merely sighs when Shiro asks whether they can stop his fingers from twitching when students won't read the syllabus. He's quite certain he's never had that tell, before.

"You had a plastic hand, before," Ulaz says. "It didn't twitch at anything."

"Maybe it's a bug," Shiro offers.

"I'm sure the students consider it a feature," Thace says from the other side of the lab, so quietly Shiro isn't sure whether he's allowed to laugh.

The semester ends, grades are turned in, and Allura and Lotor arrive with armfuls of groceries. Allura does prep, Lotor cooks, and Shiro's put in charge of opening bottles and pouring wine. It's not until the next morning Shiro discovers where the rest of the food had gone: into his fridge. Each container has a colorful sticky with Lotor's sharply elegant handwriting, detailing reheating instructions.

Time moves too fast after that, thanks to a whirlwind rush of adrenalin much like he'd once felt from transfer orders. Packing is much easier with two hands, though he doesn't have much. One small apartment is much like the next, enough that he accepts Lotor's suggestion, unseen. The basement has small lockable storage garages, because on-street parking is out of the question.

And then it's the first monday in June, and he's moved, mostly settled, and pulling into the same spot as always, right in front. The yellow Indian seems to have collected a few more rolls of duct-tape across the seat, and Shiro does his best to ignore what seems to be a coat hanger holding the pipes in place. On the other side, the Valkyrie's been preempted by a cherry-red BMW cafe racer. The black Harley settles onto its stand with a groan.

For a moment, Shiro hefts the helmet, looking up at the glass-and-steel building. It's not too late to change his mind; the physics department had dangled tenure under his nose. Maybe a year, and he'll go back.

He locks the helmet away, and with it, his doubts. He's already moved, agreed, and besides, Allura's waiting, along with his new team.

Shiro squares his shoulders and heads inside.


	2. Chapter 2

Shiro accepts the badge with what he hopes is a graceful nonchalance. ID badges have been a part of his life for years, but that will never be the face he sees when he thinks of himself. He's hooking the badge to his belt loop when a sun-brown hand appears in his view.

"Hey! Dr Shirogane, right?"

Shiro takes the hand automatically, shaking once before he looks up to see who's greeting him. A man in his mid-twenties, maybe, but with the grin of a college student—and the clothes of one. Jeans, a company t-shirt, and flip-flops. The man is wearing _flip-flops._

"Lance," the man says. "Allura's got meetings and shit, so sadly for you that means I'm the one giving you the grand tour on the way to HR."

"Oh," Shiro says, already half-lost. "Alright. Call me Shiro, though."

"Sure thing, Shiro. This way to the elevators!"

It's not a grand tour so much as a whirlwind, or maybe that's just Lance. Shiro can't get a word in edgewise, though he doesn't much try, content to let Lance yammer on. The gym, the cafeteria. Second floor, down that hall is the design studio, engineering's on the third floor, fourth floor's slated for renovation soon, the other building's floors are mostly research labs except for the fifth and sixth floors, those are a different company.

And then they're on a floor that looks like it's been untouched since forever—it's very retro, Lance calls it. Shiro senses there's more than just maybe eight years' difference in their ages, but an entire civilization. And then Shiro's left with a dark-skinned man named Iverson, and Lance has vamoosed. Iverson takes Shiro through the insurance and company offerings at the same rapid clip as Lance had given the tour. Shiro signs, nods, and ends up with a folder of paperwork. He tucks it under his arm along with his leather jacket, steps into the hallway.

Flip-flop boy materializes from one of the other offices with an armful of boxes, and a larger one in the other hand. "Got you a monitor, laptop, keyboard—say, did you prefer bluetooth? No worries, you can trade with Pidge, she hates her—"

"Actually, I prefer a full keyboard," Shiro says. "I like the number pad."

Lance stops, eyes wide, as if startled that Shiro actually speaks. Then he breaks into a grin. "You and Pidge are gonna get along great. Hold on, might as well grab another keyboard for Pidge. Here, hold this." He unloads the boxes into Shiro's arms. "Be right back."

In the end, Shiro carries the monitor, after watching Lance struggle to haul it along. The man's wiry, probably athletic, but looks built for speed, not strength. Unfortunately, hefting the monitor onto his shoulder cuts off half the view, and Shiro's still not sure where the elevators are, or where he is.

Next thing he knows, he's swept into the same room where Allura had decided to change his life in at least three different ways. Most of the whiteboard's changed, but someone's carefully left all of Shiro's notes and equations in place. Four standing desks are pushed together in the center.

"This is our war room," Lance announces proudly, sweeping Shiro in. "Hey, we've got our fourth. Hunk, Pidge—"

"We've met," Pidge says, without looking up. She's perched on a stool facing one of the walls, as if in a time-out, but she's bent over her laptop, typing furiously.

"You haven't even looked up, you antisocial monster," Lance says. "You have to at least shake hands to say you've met."

Hunk glances up from his laptop, and does a double-take. "You're the astrophysicist!"

"Aerospace engineer," Shiro says, shaking Hunk's hand. "I taught astrophysics, though."

Hunk's almost equal to Shiro's height, but he's built like a tank. Brown skin, brown eyes, brown hair, grin as easy-going as Lance's. There's a sharpness to his gaze, though, that makes Shiro suspect the man doesn't miss much, and lines around his eyes that make him feel closer to Shiro's age.

"Well, pick a table," Hunk says, gesturing at the space. "Your laptop set up yet?"

"Don't you dare set it up for him, or I'll be fixing it for the next two months." Pidge slaps her laptop shut and comes over, taking the box from Lance while Shiro and Hunk wrestle out the monitor.

"Nice one," Hunk says. "Hey, can we just set this up and share it?"

"You could get yours from your desk and then you wouldn't have to," Lance says. "I'm gonna grab some coffee and let Allura know you're here, Shiro. You know where the kitchen is, right?"

He's gone before Shiro can answer.

"Don't mind him." Hunk shoves the desks around to find the plug in the floor, while Pidge has Shiro's laptop open and is doing things to it with a suspicious little grin on her face.

"I think I'll set up my own laptop," Shiro says, snatching it away from her. "I've done it before."

"Hey!" Pidge's grin resolves into something friendlier. "Matt says hey, by the way, and that Mom's not gonna let you in the house for Thanksgiving if you don't call and let her know you've moved in alright."

"Wait, you're related?" Hunk looks back and forth between them, obviously trying to reconcile Pidge's Anglo features and strawberry-orange hair at five-even with Shiro's East Asian features and dark hair—not counting the shock of white bangs—at six-two. "Which of you is adopted?"

"Pidge," Shiro says, not even looking up, expression bland.

There's a split-second of shocked silence, and Pidge recovers. "He's the adopted one," Pidge tells Hunk, while Shiro grins at his screen. "He and my brother were college roommates."

"Sure, doing the nepotism," Hunk says, but his tease doesn't have a lot of bite. "Okay, so we have an interview in fifteen, but we've got that meeting with the design team." He rubs his chin, considering. "Shiro, I'm going to send you with Lance—"

"What? Where are you sending me?" Lance returns, coffee in hand, laptop under one arm, cords trailing along the floor behind him.

"Design meeting. Introduce Shiro to everyone."

Lance's grin is nearly blinding. "I can do—hey, I get to interview, too. You can't shut me out!"

"Watch us." Pidge shoves her stool sideways, positioning herself just right to lean against the whiteboard, while propping her feet up on the nearest table. Her _bare_ feet.

Maybe if Shiro calls the university now, they'll make that tenure offer already.

"Bare feet, off the table," Hunk says, pointing. "Bad enough you're not wearing shoes. What if someone drops hardware on your feet?"

"I can go see Ulaz and he'll commiserate with me." Pidge drops her feet, hops down, puts the laptop on her head. "Come on, let's go see if it's our turn, yet."

"Fine, fine." Hunk closes his laptop. "Lance, design meeting, then see if you can weasel into the architecture board meeting."

Lance groans, but waits as Shiro sets his leather jacket beside the rest of the team's bags. On impulse, Shiro loosens his tie, balls it up, and shoves it into his jacket's inside pocket.

"Undoing the top button, too? You're a risk-taker." Lance grins at his own joke. "At least you're wearing jeans. You're kind of what I'd expect of a friend of Allura's, and kind of not."

"Which parts did you expect, and which didn't you?" Shiro picks up his laptop, and follows Lance out.

"The tie, the button-up shirt." Lance waves his half-full cup of coffee at Shiro. "But from the waist down, you seem... " He pauses, frowning. "Do you ride, or are the jacket and boots just for show?"

"I ride."

"Oh, another one." Lance makes a face. "Just so you know, I've got my hands full picking up Hunk every time he breaks down. I mean, it's better than when he had the Triumph, but still."

"Hunk had a Triumph?" Shiro thinks of the yellow bike out front. "That Indian, is that Hunk's?"

"Yeah, and believe it, life is better with the Indian. At least it gets parked outside, instead of taking up our living room." Lance grins. "Hunk and I ended up sharing an apartment when we were in grad school. I thought it was a sweet deal, paying one-third of the rent. Turns out it was because my third roommate was a Triumph who spent most of its life in pieces."

"They do that," Shiro says, sagely. He's never been there, himself, but he's known people who have.

"Sure, until we realized we couldn't get it out the door. Had to take it apart again and re-mantle it in the—hey, here we are." Lance takes over the room as he enters, setting off a round of introductions, only half of which Shiro catches.

The team's idiosyncrasies—and the constant glass walls—aside, by halfway through the meeting, Shiro's starting to get an idea of just how many things the company does. It's not just aeronautical and bioengineering, it's robotics and AI and cloud and a list of jargon as long as his new arm.

He's also a bit of a celebrity, it seems, and he can feel his ears getting hot every time someone recognizes him. He's asked at least five times for his opinion, which coming from kids barely older than his former students, is both flattering and worrisome. How bad a teacher was he, that his students were never this interested in what he had to say?

About halfway through the meeting, Lance slides out, and about two minutes later, Hunk comes in, taking Lance's place. The next project being reviewed seems to be a particular interest of Hunk's, and Shiro listens closely. Hunk has a goofy laugh, seems easy-going, but his mind makes quick leaps that leave Shiro dazzled.

The meeting ends, and Hunk nudges Shiro, says something like _see you top of the hour_ and he's gone again. Shiro ends up in a conversation with two engineers about getting an AI to measure for flutter. His feet go where the engineers lead, and the first recognizable thing—the kitchen—is his excuse to bow out of the debate.

He makes a cup of coffee, startled when the person next to him hands over the jug of milk. Thace.

"First week is rough," Thace says, smiling down at Shiro.

"It is." Shiro smiles around the rim of the cup. "At least it's decent coffee."

"Oh, you found the stash for Allura's teams. She spoils them horribly." Thace opens the same door and helps himself, anyway. "The rest of us benefit, of course." Coffee made, he settles in beside Shiro, seemingly content to take his time. "How many meetings, so far?"

"Does HR count? If not, then only one."

"Let's make it two. I've got a team meeting, and I'd like your input." Thace stands, giving Shiro that quick grin. "Come on, let's get you in the habit."

"Pardon?" Shiro remembers his laptop in time, following Thace out and back down the corridor towards the glass-walled conference rooms. A different one, smaller, this time. 

"Yes." Thace finishes off his coffee, drops the cup into a recycling container. "The habit of getting you used to assisting other teams with your expertise."

"I don't feel like I have any expertise, right now. Except in maybe Physics 101."

"Once you get your bearings, that'll change. In here." Thace leads the way, and his introductions are genteel, with pauses for Shiro to speak. It's almost relaxing, compared to Lance's torrential style.

Despite Thace's team being focused on cybernetics like Shiro's arm, their current puzzle runs parallel to Shiro's own area of study. One of the team asks a question, and when no one else answers, Shiro speaks up. When he gets five blank faces—and Thace at the end of the table, looking smug—Shiro drops into instructor mode.

"Hand me that pen?" Shiro uncaps it, claims an empty space on the nearest whiteboard-wall, and works out the equation, explaining as he goes. "Okay, that's the structural mass, roughly, and then we figure stiffness... Take the integral of El—that's E times the second area of moment—and multiple that by the square of the second derivative of u..." Shiro finishes with a frown.

"So what's the verdict, doctor?" Thace asks. "Is our project going to survive?"

"Can't speak for the project," Shiro says. "But it won't with that particular dampener."

The five sigh as heavily as Shiro's students once had—then the moment passes. They pepper Shiro with questions, determined to disprove his conclusions. Failing that, to pin him down on alternate solutions. He's barely out of that meeting, and Allura comes past, claiming him. Her meeting's tamer; mostly VPs who keep their laptops open, less inclined to start drawing on the walls. But Allura wants to know what he thinks of the solution two engineers have suggested, and whether it sounds feasible.

Two meetings where everyone looked like they dressed for Saturday every day, now a meeting where half the attendees are wearing jackets. Maybe he should've kept the tie on.

The engineers' presentation done, Shiro's mind rattles over the details, processing. By the time he resurfaces, he's lost track of the topic. It doesn't help that he's in yet another glass-walled conference room, with the corridor for visual distraction. People walk past in twos and threes, coming and going. It's somewhat reassuring that about half the people look somewhere between his age, and Ulaz'. They're not all college students, at least.

Three people have halted, mid-chat. One is a woman, about Hunk's height, with short purple hair, streaked with black. The other is a young man in a beat-up short racer's jacket, standing with his back to the conference room. The third is Hunk.

There's something about sitting within the glass room that turns the image on the other side into a view, despite Shiro knowing intellectually he can be seen, as easily as he sees. But still, he stares at the man with his back to the glass. It's just the easy way the man stands, weight cocked on one hip, a bag slung over his shoulder, a hand on his other hip. Black hair that hasn't seen a barber in three years, shaggy and curling over the man's collar. Long legs, a lean build, but the jeans are just tight enough to hint at defined muscles.

Meanwhile, the woman running Allura's meeting is now droning on about headcount and costs and something else. Shiro checks his laptop, finishing one installation and beginning the next. But his gaze keeps being drawn back to the trio.

Or more precisely, the way the man's ass looks in those jeans.

Shiro realizes what he's doing and snaps himself back to attention. Corporate can't be that different from the military or academia. Fraternization is grounds for dismissal. Being overloaded with new information is no excuse for forgetting the rules. He focuses on the laptop before him. It doesn't work. His eyes wander over, just a glimpse.

Next to him, Allura triggers a heated discussion between two of the VPs opposite. In the resulting furor, Allura snags Shiro laptop, sliding it from his lap onto hers.

When she returns it, there's a memo open on top of his installation screens.

_Eyes front._

Humiliating. Still, he has only himself to blame. Shiro covers with a scowl, nods once, and closes her note. He can feel her sympathetic smile, along with the heat gathering in his ears.

When the meeting ends, Hunk and the other two are gone, to Shiro's relief. Allura walks him back to his team's claimed room on the other end of the floor, stopping at the kitchen. Coffee for her, water for him. Shiro's nerves are jangling enough. He doesn't need the caffeine.

It's something he'd never ask of anyone else, but he's known Allura through her worst, just as she's known him for his.

With the kitchen momentarily empty but for them, he leans close. "Was I that obvious?"

"No," Allura says, understanding immediately. "If it helps, most people actually ignore the conference rooms. They'll glance over, wave if you're looking their way when they are, but that's about it."

Shiro sips his water, considering.

"I know because I've known you so long I think sometimes I know you better than I know my own husband. HR aside, the unspoken rule around here is pretty simple. Never date someone on your team. If you're in the same division, once you get serious enough that other people start to catch on, one of you will have to transfer."

"So fraternization is acceptable?" The very concept feels alien.

"Generally, as long as you don't share a manager somewhere in the first three levels of the food chain. And never if you _are_ the manager."

He wants off the topic, and clutches at old memories bubbling up. "So _that's_ why you threatened to fire Lotor." He'd always wondered the reason behind her off-hand comment, especially when a month later the two were dating openly and seriously.

"I wasn't going to ask him out until he was someone else's engineer." Allura knocks her paper cup against Shiro's water bottle. "The day the transfer went through, though…"

"Good thing he was interested."

"Oh, he definitely was, and we both knew it." Her mouth curls up at one end, and Shiro elbows her. She elbows him right back, grin widening.

 

 

 

Shiro gets home, drops everything on the floor in the middle of his near-empty living room, and decides to procrastinate on unpacking by going for a run, instead. He passed a gym on his way home and thought about joining, but he wasn't up for the hassle. Explaining his prosthesis, explaining he knows what he's doing, explaining to every desk person, then the assistant manager, then the manager. It's tiresome. He'd once thought flexing would be enough to show he's not exactly a newcomer to weights, but it's never worked like that. The on-base gym would be easiest, but now it's a two-hour trip and that's not happening. 

Home again and showered, he wanders into his bedroom to push open his closet doors. He took mental notes of everyone he saw, including the VPs wearing jeans. He can tuck his professor-slacks and jackets in the back of the closet, then, along with the ties. That doesn't actually leave much, though. Thinking of ties reminds him of the meeting, and that reminds him... 

His ears get hot all over again. He can't remember the last time he checked someone out, let alone so blatantly. Not since he'd met someone during winter break... only to see them sitting in the front row of his class the next semester. He'd had to request the student be transferred to another section, prompting one of the most excruciating conversations Shiro had ever had with an employer. Allura had called his reaction hibernation. He'd called it the better part of valor.  

His cell phone rings. Shiro has to dig through his leather jacket to find it.

"Shirogane," he says, to be obnoxious.

"I'm aware of who I'm calling," Lotor says, his Americanized posh British accent even more pronounced on the phone. "Allura's got evening calls with some Australian team, and I'm bored. Are you decent?"

"Define decent. I'm wearing a towel." Shiro drops the towel and snags a pair of clean sweatpants. "Now I'm not."

"Put on some clothes and ring me in, then. I'm downstairs."

"What? Now?" Shiro opens the window, leans out, and looks down the three floors. Lotor waves up at him. Shiro shuts the window as noisily as he can. "Asshole."

"With dinner! Let me up."

 

 

 

Being Lotor, it can't just be pizza or tacos, it has to be some elaborate collection of Korean dishes. But it also hits the spot, and is made for eating a little at a time.

As usual, Lotor's dramatic coloring and long platinum hair seems more suitable for the stage in some off-broadway dive, not a degreed engineer with more patents to his name than the law allows. But like most engineers, he's as bad at small talk as Shiro. He gets right to the point. "Allura's worried you're not going to show up tomorrow," he says.

"I'll show up." Shiro steals the celery from the kimchee, licks the vinegar from his fingers. "No idea what I'll wear, or what I'm even doing there. Tell her I'll quit on a friday."

"Tell her yourself. She was getting good feedback, too. The guy who's head of mecha—cybertronics?"

"Biomechatronics? You mean Thace?"

"Right, don't ask me why, I always want to call him Barnaby. He told Allura right-out that he's going to push to have you join his team. Don't give me that look. It's good to be wanted."

"I only just started!"

"All the better, grab you now before you're too settled in." Lotor grins. "You haven't met Kolivan yet, have you."

"Was I supposed to?"

"He's your boss."

Shiro stops, astonished. "I thought I met my manager this morning, but maybe he was just an HR person?"

"That wasn't _an_ HR person, that was _your_ HR person. I think Kolivan has ten of them, each handling about fifteen to twenty people. What was the person's name?"

Shiro has to make effort to recall. So many names in one day, but Lotor recognizes the name, and fills Shiro in on the man's reputation: by the book, but a good heart. Lotor's an egghead, but he can make even dry topics entertaining. He doesn't drone, and when he's done, Shiro feels a little less overwhelmed.

"Related question." Shiro crumples up his napkin, thinking about it. "My new team was interviewing people today. They made it sound like a real ordeal, but…"

"Oh, you were interviewed. Sort of." Lotor grins around the mouth of his beer. It can be an unsettling expression on him, and it usually means Shiro's about to get in trouble. "Remember when you came in to have your arm scanned?"

"Yeah. It was for some kind of project, they wanted lots of examples of—" Shiro's abruptly suspicious. "There _were_ other amputees, right?"

Lotor rolls his eyes to the ceiling and takes a long drink, one shoulder rising a fraction.

"I can't—why would Allura _do_ that?"

"Because it was the only way to get you through the door. You met a guy about Thace's height? Grim-looking, maybe late-fifties, receding hairline, long white braid?"

"I remember him." Shiro had been bewildered by the man. He carried himself like a career officer—Shiro had been tempted to snap a salute—but his appearance felt more like a retired hippy. "I figured he was one of those mythical Unix gurus I've heard about."

"More like an entire dissertation committee in one person."

Shiro laughs. "He did have a rather intimidating air."

"In a word, he's one of _the_ names in biocomputation. You remember a few years back when Allura was working like nine days a week writing algorithms to crunch several billion rows of medical data? That was his project, his idea, his hand-picked team." Lotor sighs dramatically. "Unfortunately, as long as Allura's one of his directors, I can't be in his department. I keep telling her to transfer so I get a chance."

"So… I got interviewed and didn't even know it?" Shiro frowns. "I'm not sure that's legal."

"Well, Thace and Ulaz interviewed you, or so they claimed. And you left your work all over three walls for a team to assess, and you've been published, and those articles were passed around."

"That's not really an interview, either. I think."

"By the time Allura was done pitching having you on the team, everyone was determined to make it as easy as possible for you to say yes."

"That feels… embarrassing." Shiro's not sure, really, how he feels. Like he should apologize for not following proper channels. "I haven't even done anything to make it worth it."

"My suggestion?" Lotor's phrase, before bestowing advice.

Shiro nods.

"Normally applicants go through four, maybe five interviews, each one lasting about four hours. Anyone asks, keep it vague. You met with a great many people, and it took about three months. Which it did."

"Understood." Shiro can't quite bury the trepidation, though. How will he live up to that?

"And…" Lotor's eyes crinkle. "Allura says you're waking up from hibernation, finally. She said at a meeting today, you were—"

"Alright, this conversation is over." Shiro collects up the empty containers, waving them at Lotor. "You can leave, now."

"You can't kick me out the door," Lotor complains, gathering the empty beer bottles. "That's rudeness towards a guest. I brought you dinner."

"Right." Shiro nods, deadpan. "I'll throw you out the window, instead."

 

 

 

Second day. Shiro is baffled to find himself not so much promoted to team lead as voted into it against his will. From their sideways comments the day before, he'd gathered they'd split up the duties in a loose fashion, according to their interests.

"No way, you should totally do it," Pidge says. "Then I don't have to."

"You own ties," Hunk agrees, a boyish giggle in his tone. "Clearly you're better suited to this."

Lance groans, then perks up. "I'm the team people person. I'm the best qualified here to say you're totally leader material."

Shiro crosses his arms, unimpressed. "You're all trying to get out of the work." He's dressed down, in black jeans and a black henley. Somehow it helps to get him out of the professor-and-student mindset.

"No way, we got plenty of work." Pidge points at her laptop. "I'm doing it right now, even."

"Okay, so what are the tasks the team lead's got to do?" Shiro grabs a whiteboard pen, finds an empty space, and writes down everything the three list.

When they run out of tasks, Shiro looks his notes over.

"This code repository." He glances at Pidge. "You said something about how it has to be managed? Reviews, pulling something?"

"Yes. I expect pull requests." Pidge gets a narrow-eyed look. "Mess it up, and bad things happen."

"Do other teams have to do that?"

"They should, but most don't." Pidge sniffs.

"Can I ask you to take the lead on designing processes for that, then? Not just for us, but something other teams could follow. If you need additional support to put them in place, let me know and I'll find out who can back us up."

"Oh." Pidge looks startled, but her expression quickly becomes conspiratorial. "I could do that."

"Great. Let me know if you need anything. Next is…" Shiro squints at his handwriting. His real handwriting is still unfamiliar, in a way. "Reporting progress. That's the kind of meeting we were at yesterday, Lance?"

"Yep! Got all sorts of 'em on the calendar." Lance seems rather proud of being in demand. "That reminds me, I need to get you added."

"Can I have you take a look at all those meetings and determine which ones we really need to attend, and which ones we can send a simple update to?" Shiro throws in a bit extra, since Lance is looking a little suspicious. "I could use your leadership in this part, since you already know all the players."

Hunk takes as little effort as Pidge to take over managing the prototype's progress. Hunk's even quick to say he'll handle the orders for their weekly catered lunch. Since Shiro will eat whatever's put in front of him, he doesn't see harm in passing that off to Hunk, as well. All three swear the company will pay for it, too.

"If you say so," Shiro says. "I'll find out how we make that happen. Once I find out the budget, just let me know if you run into trouble, and how I can help." With Hunk satisfied, Shiro sends an email to Allura, asking for help.

He spends the rest of the day waiting for the team to realize, but no one says a thing. They're too satisfied with being put in charge of stuff, now that someone has their back.

Maybe this won't end up as hard as he'd feared.

 

 

 

Third day. The team's finally carved out enough of a breather space to get into the actual concept and some of the ideas they've developed since Shiro's review. The UN's space program wants to send drones deeper into the solar system.

The hitch: it'll need to be an AI, one capable not only of the same functions as previous explorer robots, but also to analyze, calculate, and make independent choices when an opportunity presents itself. With the radio delay from the distances, and the places the drone needs to go, it'll need to think on its own.

The secret, Hunk explains, is that they need data: good, concrete data, to know how a pilot would think and react. They need a sturdier drone design—that's where Shiro comes in—but the real trick is a human-to-computer interface that presupposes a knowledgeable pilot, and a pilot to be their data-source as well as help design that interface.

Not some uncivilized animal, as Pidge so ungenerously puts it.

"Our choices are down to five," Hunk says, pushing Shiro's monitor around as their shared screen. He taps some keys and opens the various reviews that someone's compiled into assessments and rankings.

"No names," Lance tells Shiro. "I mean, we know their names 'cause we met them for interviews and tests and stuff, but company rules that we don't get to see that when we pick."

"Prevents bias," Pidge says, knowingly, then frowns. "Hey, it doesn't say which one is the barnstormer."

"The what?" Shiro glances over the assessments. Comments from twenty people on each, about the same ten overlapping for each.

Lotor was right; they really had gone easy on Shiro. He's still not sure how he feels about that, though he's honest enough with himself to know he would've stayed teaching, then. One dissertation committee in his life was enough, though this process is more like a fire drill. Ten fire drills. While being shot at.

"Y'know those airshows, where there's trick piloting and stuff?" Hunk asks. "One of the applicant's been doing that for like ten years. We put him on the robotic's teams spiffy simulator, and he smoked it."

"More like broke it," Pidge said. "Left them sobbing. It was awesome."

Shiro's not sure how anyone breaks a simulator, and he'd been in enough of them. He keeps that to himself. It's been seven years, and he hasn't had a nightmare in months. Some things are probably best left as they are.

"At least he didn't break the military simulator," Hunk says. "I don't wanna think about what Kolivan would've done." He pretends to shudder. "So glad I don't have to deal with Kolivan directly. You have my sympathies, Shiro."

"Uh, thanks?" Shiro's got a lunch date with Kolivan on his calendar. With Shiro's luck they'll go for italian and he'll end up with lunch on his shirt.

"Anyway, and then we put the guy on our prototype," Pidge says, coming up on her knees to lean over the table, propped up on her elbows. "He and Lance were in there for like two hours, going over all the details. Lance had like sixteen pages of notes."

"Three hours, I thought." Hunk looks at Lance, who uncharacteristically shrugs.

"Lance?" Shiro asks. "Is something wrong?"

"Hey, do you not like the guy?" Pidge asks, before Lance can say a thing. "Is that it? You take it personally what he thought of your designs?"

"Nope, he had great ideas." Lance doesn't look anyone in the eye, but he's not frowning. He's not smiling, either. He's checked out, somehow.

The team stares at him, waiting.

Lance closes his laptop with a sudden snap. "Look, all I can tell you is that we pick from this list, and whomever we decide, Shiro takes to Kolivan, and we get things to move along. But we've gotta move fast, 'cause some of these people already have offers elsewhere."

"Oooooookay," Pidge says, unconvinced.

"Let's get started, then. First one on the list." Shiro reaches over to Hunk's laptop, scrolling up. "Yes or no. Pidge?"

Shiro runs them through, keeping track. In the end, three are selected, with only one being a solid yes from everyone. If it's the one they'd discussed earlier, no one says it outright.

He would've chosen a different three, but that third one gets a definite yes from him, too. There's no mistaking a seasoned pilot who can maneuver at high speeds. The scores don't read like someone military, but they're definitely not a civilian pilot, who'd mostly just go up, stay up, land in one piece, and call it a day.

Shiro compiles the list and sends it off to Iverson. An hour later, Shiro's able to report their top choice has accepted. Pidge and Hunk high-five each other, and Lance's beaming grin practically brightens the entire room.

"Now I can tell you!" Lance crows. "I went to grade school with that one. Ran into him about three months ago. Like, kinda literally."

"Kinda?" Pidge asks.

"With my truck. And to my everlasting pride, I am mature enough that I didn't back up and run into him again." Lance rests his elbows on the table, grin crooked. "I was a bit of a jerk as a kid. Used to tease him horribly, keep going until he'd punch me. So anyway, one day I'm backing out and banged into someone. Hopped out to see if the person was okay, and guess what."

"Did he punch you?" Hunk wants to know. "I mean, what are you getting at?"

"No, actually, I apologized. First for bumping him, and then for being a jackass as a kid. Plus, I'd knocked his stuff out of his hands, so I offered to buy him a replacement drink. We ended up catching up. He's much cooler now."

Shiro suspected it helped that Lance had grown up a fair bit in the meantime, too.

"Anyway, when we went to the airshow." Lance jerked his head in Hunk's direction. "It wasn't by accident. I figured if you were impressed, then I'd get him to apply. That's why I couldn't say anything."

"Well, let's hope we didn't just ask for that airline pilot, instead." Pidge makes a face. "He was too stuffy for this team. Wore a tie every single time."

Shiro clears his throat, and Pidge shrugs.

"Don't see you wearing one, now," she says.

 

 

 

Fourth day means recovering from his first solid workout in two weeks. He might've overdone it. His prosthesis feels tight and his body aches. Before he leaves for work, he sends an email to Ulaz and Thace asking about a good time to come by and get it looked at. Checking work email that early means warning that Iverson's scheduled time on his calendar. Something about setting up his goals for the year. Shiro sends an email to the team, and a second one to Lance about organizing a team chat for faster communication.

It also means Shiro can take his time. Iverson wants to see him at nine-thirty, and the rest of his team should roll in between nine and ten. He thought it bizarre until he saw emails from them, time-stamped ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, even one after midnight from Pidge.

He's starting to get a sense the true hard part will be getting his team to actually take breaks.

Shiro cruises the half-empty parking lot to the row of bike parking at the front. The rat-bike hasn't arrived yet, nor the green Valkyrie that had turned out to be Pidge's. Funny that she's riding, when her folks had spent an entire Christmas holiday worrying after Shiro arrived on the new-to-him Harley. Being Pidge, she'd cornered him. Shiro gave his solemn promise, unperturbed. Matt's gonna find out eventually, anyway, and Shiro will do his best to appear just as shocked.

The red BMW is there, just arrived; the bike's not even up on its kickstands yet. Shiro pulls into his usual spot and lets the Harley's rumble subside into its usual final groan. He kicks the stand and lowers the bike, throwing a leg over to stand beside it as he undoes his helmet. The BMW's rider stood up at the Harley's noise, but remains straddling the sleek bike. The rider slowly removes his full-face helmet. It's the man from two days before, as if the red racing jacket wasn't seared into Shiro's memory. Along with a few other things.

The man doesn't seem to be in a hurry. In fact, he seems almost reluctant.

"You okay?" Shiro asks.

"Yeah. I guess." The man's smile a tentative thing, but enough to hint at breathtaking, if the man let it show more. "First day."

"Fourth day, for me." Shiro locks his helmet away, tucks the keys in his pocket. "Come on in, they don't eat new people alive." He pretends to consider it. "Not for the first four days, at least."

The man's laugh is soft. "Good to know."

"I'm Shiro." Without thinking, Shiro sticks out his right hand, surprised to find he almost hesitated. Where once people would react awkwardly, half of his new coworkers recognize him thanks to his hand, and then it's a half-hour of excited questions.

"Keith." The man doesn't even look at Shiro's hand, and with his riding gloves still on, Keith might not even realize he's just shaking a prosthesis.

There's something about that realization that makes Shiro's ears get hot. He doesn't know why, but he wouldn't mind coming up with another reason to make Keith smile. As long as Allura's nowhere around to tease him afterwards. Shiro glances upwards. He wouldn't put it past Lotor to already have set something up.

"What is it?" Keith asks, following Shiro's gaze.

"Uh, just wondering if it's going to rain today." Shiro gestures towards the doors rather than smack himself in the forehead. He needs to find something to say. Some excuse to keep talking. He could ask about Keith's team, but doubtful he'd have anymore context than Keith.

Perhaps it's unintentional, but Keith comes to his rescue. "What kind of work do you do?" Keith walks slower than one might expect from a Beemer. In Shiro's experience, Beemers walk fast, talk fast, think fast. Keith walks like a Harley guy.

"Oh, I—" Shiro isn't really sure. He falls back on the explanation he's given since grad school. "I work in dynamic aeroelasticity. It, uh, means I study elastic and inertial—" When Keith gives him a blank look, Shiro laughs self-consciously and mimes pulling a string to its full length. "You ever stretched a rubber band out, and shaken it really hard?"

Keith blinks, but nods.

"That's oscillation. When that vibration syncs up with something else, it's harmonic oscillation. That's my speciality, identifying when that's happening and how to reduce it."

"So… like when an airplane wing sort of shivers, when it's in the air?"

"Flutter." Shiro's delighted. No one's said anything like that to him, yet. He hadn't realized he'd missed that part of talking to people. It's what he liked about teaching. "Exactly."

Keith's smile is like the sun coming out, and Shiro's heart hammers like it hasn't in way too long. He wonders how stupid his own smile must look. He covers for it by pushing open the door and waving Keith ahead of him.

"Uh, first step is security," Shiro says, pointing to the main desk. "You do your badge first, then they'll call up whoever's meeting you, and they'll come down to get you."

"Thanks. I'm a little early." Keith thumps his helmet against his thigh. "And no offense but now I'm extra-nervous. Tell me not everyone does what you do, so I don't feel so out of my depth."

Shiro laughs. "If everyone did what I do, they wouldn't need me."

"A plus." Keith smiles, opens his mouth, closes it, presses his lips together.

It's the only reason Shiro says what he says next. "Once you're settled in, look me up on the system. I'm the only Shiro, too. We could, uh, get lunch? The sandwich place is kinda hidden, but—"

Keith's gone kinda wide-eyed, and Shiro hopes the curl of Keith's brows is a good thing.

"Uh, since we're both new. Might as well stick together." Shiro forces himself to stop talking before he just ends up yammering like Lance. "If you want."

"Yeah," Keith says, really soft. "Maybe tomorrow? Once I know my schedule."

"Great." Shiro digs out his phone, checks the time. "Have to run. Meeting."

"Sure. Thanks for the help." Keith waves his helmet, a little.

Shiro waves, heading towards the elevators. He's got too much pride to look back, but he does wish the elevators doors were mirrored, so he could look without being obvious.

An half-hour later, he's done with Iverson and yanked into a meeting with Thace's team for another round of pester-the-professor. No sooner does he escape that, he gets snagged in the hallway for a chat with Allura and two of her team about the revisions to the proposals Shiro had heard on his first day. He reminds himself at least six times how long it took him to get his own laptop set up. There's no reason to start checking email for anyone named...

Shiro almost does bang himself in the forehead. He didn't even ask the guy's last name. 

He makes it to his team's room by evading anyone else who might delay him. Pidge has three of her team with her, heads bent together around Shiro's monitor as they work out some coding bug. Shiro drops his stuff, has enough time to check in, and he's off to lunch with Kolivan. It's like dealing with a CO. Kolivan lays out what he considers success, and Shiro must decide whether he can deliver. Once he decides he can, Kolivan drops the next anvil on his head. Shiro's not just the team's lead, he's their leader.

"Each is very good in their specialty, but the reason I wanted you is because you can see the big picture," Kolivan says. "Although the HR managers will handle a lot of the paperwork, I want you to work with each person on your team. Help them define what they're doing, where they want to go, and what they need to learn to get there. Talk to Allura and Thace. They'll be good mentors."

"Thanks, I'll do that," Shiro promises, flattered and startled. He's spent the week with no real idea what value he's bringing to things other than confusing people with technical jargon. He doesn't know what he wants, long-term. How is he supposed to help someone else figure that out?

Shiro returns to his team after lunch, head down over his phone, thumbing through his emails. He pushes open the glass doors, only looking up once he's dropped his jacket over the first empty stool.

"Hey," Hunk says. "Kolivan didn't grill you and eat you for lunch, yay for small victories."

"Hardly. He reminds me of my last—" Shiro cuts off, thinking twice about mentioning personal history so soon. Whatever he'd meant to turn his words into, he forgets.

Keith is standing at the far end of the room, arms crossed, brows lowered while Lance sketches something on the wall. Pidge stands beside them, head tilted, looking like she's caught mid-snark. All three turn at Shiro's voice.

"This is him!" Lance waves his arms, pointing at Keith. "This is the guy we wanted so bad! Keith, this is Shiro, our leader. Shiro, this is Keith. He's our pilot."


	3. Chapter 3

"We met walking in this morning," Shiro says, with a slight wave. "You getting settled in alright?"

"Yeah." Keith's smile falters.

Lance jumps into the awkward space, calling Keith's and Pidge's attention back to the whiteboard sketch. Shiro flips open his laptop and settles in beside Hunk, who has questions about some of the designs Hunk's modeling.

It's simple engineering, and interesting, and soon Shiro's buried in the conversation. Mostly. Really, he's multitasking. Hearing Hunk, seeing Keith, and thinking of his own idiocy.

Shiro had quit his last therapist when his grad school insurance ran out, but maybe it was time to go back. If he found someone attractive, it was guaranteed they were off-limits. What was wrong with him? The woman who'd spontaneously spotted for him at the gym, the man who four times now had happened to check his apartment mailbox at the same time as Shiro. Attractive, but Shiro felt little attraction. When he did…

He knows what Allura would say, or Matt, or Lotor. Maybe a therapist might tell him something different. Before he can decide, he gets a text from Kolivan about an engineering meeting. Shiro snags Hunk to come along, and the impromptu invite ends up taking the rest of their afternoon.

The other three are gone by the time Hunk and Shiro leave. They say their goodbyes at their bikes, and Shiro does his best to ignore the empty space beside his Harley. He's been through this a hundred times, easy. He can be an adult about this.

 

 

 

Friday, and Keith ends up sitting beside Shiro. He spends the morning with his headphones on, doing the orientation and security training Shiro's been putting off. He finishes before noon, and asks Shiro in an undertone where to find the sandwich place.

"It's—" Shiro glances up in time to meet Keith's eyes for the first time since yesterday. He has to look away, busy himself checking email for Iverson's confirmation. "Hey, Iverson says I can use the corporate card to treat us. Team lunch, everyone?"

"I brought mine," Lance says, then narrows his eyes. "Wait, are you paying?"

"The company is."

"In that case, count me in." Lance checks his phone. "We should go now, before the rush hits."

Turns out Lance knows a shortcut through the building that takes them into the basement, rather than walk around. It's a fine summer day, but when the winter rains come, it'll be good to know. Shiro does his best to reel in Pidge, who's busy giving Lance and Keith the highlights of Shiro's life story. It's not that much to tell, but Shiro feels like apologizing for her, anyway.

"Sounds like nepotism to me," Hunk says, good-naturedly. "You're practically brother and sister."

"I didn't hire him," Pidge retorts. "I didn't even know it was him until after Iverson said the position had been filled. And it's not like I go around telling people I've known Shiro since I was, like, twelve."

Lance grins. "You just did. Twelve, hunh?"

Keith looks back and forth between them, sometimes glancing at Shiro. The only thing Shiro can do is shrug and hope his face isn't completely red.

At least Pidge had limited her story to how Shiro and Matt were roommates all four years of undergrad. Nothing about Matt going for his masters while Shiro headed back to full-time military. Nothing about the accident that ended one career and pushed Shiro into a new one.

After they put in their orders, Keith ends up next to Shiro, getting water for everyone while Shiro grabs a handful of napkins and extra-hot sauce for Pidge and Hunk. By the time Shiro can think of something to say, something suitably low-key and professional, they're at the table and it's too late.

Shiro hesitates, not sure where to sit. He wants to sit next to Keith, accidentally bump elbows so he can apologize because it'll be conversation. But he wants to sit across from Keith, and then he can look Keith's way, nonchalantly, and have it mean nothing.

By the time the waiter brings their sandwiches, Keith's smiled or laughed seven times. Shiro's stomach has a knot for every single time. It's okay, Shiro tells himself. A weekend to get his head in the right place, and he'll be fine.

 

 

 

He's not fine.

Monday rolls around, and the bike is already there when Shiro arrives. Keith's sent email saying he's got a meeting with Iverson, and another with Kolivan. Shiro has the room for himself for over an hour, until the rest of the team wanders in around ten.

Keith's meeting with Kolivan had reminded Shiro, and he walks the team through the different leadership tasks. Once the team realizes he's explaining it all for Keith's benefit, they're quick to take over. By the time they're done, Keith's got two tasks. He's assigned to pair with Pidge so he can get insight into how her team impacts Keith's role as their test pilot, and he'll be running the team meetings when Shiro's got a conflict.

Shiro remembers to arrange a one-on-one with each of them. He arranges a slot with Keith for last in the day, so they can walk out together. No, he should talk to Keith first. No, second. He moves the slot back and forth, and gives up, scheduling none of them. Later. There's no need to rush.

With his virtual environment finally set up and a meeting-free afternoon, Shiro's able to bury himself in reviewing the models Hunk and Pidge had created. Lance drags Keith off to a design meeting and from there to the simulator Pidge's team is programming. Five developers on another floor, stuck in the older cubicles, doing their best to keep up with Pidge.

Shiro almost feels sorry for them, and he's not even met them yet. Especially since Pidge reminds Shiro at least ten times that her biggest blocker is not having hard data on the dynamic pressures Aloysius will need.

"Allo-wish-us?" Shiro asks, baffled.

"The drone. Aloysius," Pidge says. "Don't look at me, Lance named it."

"I still say we should call it Pumpkin," Hunk says. "It's kinda round, after all."

"What was wrong with…" Shiro checks through the team's documents folder. "Oh. Drone-1789-AQB1-C342."

"Exactly," Pidge says. "But no one liked my idea of calling it Aquibbi."

Hunk makes a face. "It's not even a word."

"What was wrong with just calling it the drone?" Shiro asks.

Pidge sighs. "Shiro, we know you're an engineer at heart. You don't have to go and _prove_ it."

"Hey," Hunk protests. "I resemble that remark, and I voted for pumpkin."

Pidge and Hunk divert into a mildly heated argument about semi-colons, and Shiro puts his head down, focusing on the model's complex calculations. Two hours later, he resurfaces long enough to realize his email and notifications have piled up. He accepts the meeting invites automatically, scans the company's internal message app, checks the discussion happening in the team's public channel.

There's a little star at the top bar of the window. It wasn't there the last time Shiro checked. He asks Hunk, who barely glances over.

"Private message," Hunk says. "People usually do that for off-topic questions, so it doesn't litter up the public channels. Execs don't seem to know what channels are. They'll usually PM you."

"Oh, thanks." Shiro clicks on it.

Keith's name appears in the sidebar. His message feels very like the way Keith talks: direct, not a word wasted. _Kolivan told me to set up time with you to discuss goals._

Shiro chews on his thumbnail for a minute, sorting through how he should respond. He wants to be as friendly as he would to anyone else, but Keith isn't anyone else. He should be. Shiro needs him to be, because that's the only way Shiro's going to stay sane.

But what Shiro would say to Lance, or Hunk, or Pidge, or anyone else he's met, he'd only say to each of them. He needs to figure out the way he'd talk to Keith. Shiro deliberates, rearranges his words, and finally takes the same matter-of-fact tone: _I'll send you an invite._

And just like that, he's locked into a half-hour in a small room, alone with Keith, and he feels fourteen again, tongue-tied with his first crush. This, however, is absolutely not a crush. It's just the residual awkwardness of accidentally sort-of asking out someone who ended up on his team.

Shiro keeps telling himself that, mildly annoyed that the rest of him isn't listening.

 

 

 

Third week. The team's coming together, and he's starting to get a hang of which meetings are crucial, and which aren't. Also, which invitations to duck, and which people won't take no for an answer and therefore are best avoided.

Thace carves out an hour of Shiro's time, with Kolivan's permission. The executives' meeting gets stuck on his calendar as well, thanks to Allura. Pidge claims another hour, taking him along to meet with her developers. After the sleek modern glass-walled open areas of Shiro's own floor, it's surreal to wade the labyrinth of cubicles. Every desk is occupied by caffeine-guzzling people who look ready for the beach, and work surrounded by toys and gadgets.

He does a one-on-one with Lance first, since Lance's been with the company two years. Shiro ends up learning more from Lance, but it's not the first time Shiro's taught off the cuff. Lance leaves with a plan in hand, satisfied, and Shiro counts it a reasonable good start. Hunk is next; he joined two months after Lance. Hunk's knowledge is more concrete, and he doesn't throw around even a tenth of the names Lance had.

By the time Shiro meets with Pidge, he's feeling a bit more confident about what leading questions will point her in the right direction. Surprisingly, it's not as stressful as he'd expected. She walks through the door with her business hat on, in a sense. No mention of the fact that he still hasn't called Mom with an update, or what he's bringing to the family's fourth-of-july picnic. Pidge is focused, and it gives him hope.

Until Pidge walks out, and Keith walks in.

Like Shiro, every day Keith has worn a long-sleeved shirt. Keith's shirts are loose enough to hide the muscles in his arms, just reaching his hips, slender in those close-fitting black jeans. There's a darker-tanned circle on the back of each hand, a sign of sunshine riding.

Words pop into Shiro's head, a comment that could open the conversation, but he coughs, instead. He'd been professional with the other three. He owes Keith no less.

"Iverson told you how the company does annual goals?" Shiro asks.

Keith's brows curl, but he nods. "He sort of mentioned it."

Shiro slides his laptop around, showing the diagram Hunk gave him about the five-point system and the axis of goals and all the other buzzwords that still tangle in Shiro's head. He grins at one point, apologetic that he doesn't have it all memorized. Keith's responding smile is tentative, but so sweet that Shiro has to look away, concentrating.

For some reason, Shiro diverts from his mental script. Keith's work history is barely a paragraph on the company personnel site, compared to the rest of the team, and Shiro suspects that Keith is as new to the corporate world as Shiro himself. What Shiro does have is two years of meetings with students, and before that, five years of grad student teaching. This is the easy part, really.

"You seem to be getting along with the team," Shiro says. "How're you adjusting?"

"Overwhelmed," Keith says, softly. He smiles, a bit rueful. "Like getting thrown around by crosswinds."

"Better than a bad headwind," Shiro says.

Keith's smile grows. "More chaotic, though."

"It's like—" Shiro cuts off the tangent. They're here to talk about Keith's career, not chatter about riding. Or flying. Or anything else. "You'll get the hang of it. After you talked to Iverson, did you come up with any draft goals? I've got some links to example goals, if that'll help."

"I emailed you the goals before I came over," Keith said. "Iverson gave me examples, too. I wasn't really sure what to put."

"Hold on, let me check…" Shiro finds the email, opens it with the laptop turned so Keith can see. The details differ, but the basic concept is close enough to what he'd had to do every year with his commanding officer. He works his way down the list, making suggestions, adding his comments into the email as he speaks. "I'll send this back to you, so you don't have to remember this conversation on top of all the rest."

"I'll remember it," Keith promises.

"Oh. Good, a good memory's good," Shiro says, at a loss. He clears his throat again. He sounds like one of the antique professors in his old department. Another reminder that Keith's twenty-six like Lance, while Shiro's thirty-two. He feels twice that, suddenly. "So, uh, right now your piloting skills are in major demand. Long-term, though, is that what you want to stay with?"

Keith is silent for a moment. "Are they not good enough for long-term?"

 _They're amazing_ , Shiro wants to say. _You're amazing._ Would that be unprofessional, to admit how impressed he was? It's not something he'd say to a student.

"I like the design meetings," Keith says, hesitant. "Not the part Lance does, with the design. The part where people get interviewed."

"I think that's research?" Shiro tries to remember what Lance calls it.

While Lance is all about talking to anything that'll stand still long enough to hold a conversation, he also complains bitterly about the data analysis. It's too much number-crunching, and it bores Lance. But for someone who's said as little as Keith, a skillset that requires talking to people seems like a stretch.

"That's a lot of talking to people," Shiro finally says, not sure whether he's crossing a line. "You seem sort of… quiet."

"Everyone is, compared to Lance." A true grin flickers across Keith's face. "I like people. I'm just—" He looks away, fidgets. "I'm not good at talking to people. It's easier with a script."

Shiro laughs, understanding. "I wrote all my class lectures and practiced—" Another abrupt cough. Stay on track. "Sorry, we have only fifteen more minutes. From what I've seen, the company rewards learning new skills. I can find out what classes there are for research, and Lance might know."

Keith nods, a bit less enthusiastically.

"But better to have you work with someone not on the team," Shiro says.

Who knows what the company policy is, but Shiro's pretty sure that while Lance is a decent person, mentoring anyone is going to be one of Lance's stretch goals. It doesn't come easy to Lance. That means finding someone with the time… Shiro grins, suddenly.

"Thace," Shiro says. "Thace is head of the biomechatronics team, and he's got two researchers on his team. I'll see whether we can hook you up with one of them—" The phrasing sends Shiro's brain in a different direction, one he shuts down before it can even start. "And then get you some exposure, see what you think. We've got ten-percent time, so that's four hours a week you can dedicate to that."

Keith glances at Shiro, and it feels almost like a physical weight. He looks away quickly. "It seems strange to pay me for forty hours but only work for thirty-six."

"Yeah, I—it's the company investing in us," Shiro says, forcing himself back on track. "Lots of places don't do that, so I recommend you take advantage of it."

"What are you doing, for your ten-percent time?" Keith might be making conversation. Maybe there's a reason he's asking. Students would do that, when they wanted validation they were choosing the right path.

"I—" Shiro looks at the laptop instead of Keith. "I'd like to say I have a plan," he says, falling back on honesty. "But I have a feeling it's going to get chosen for me."

"For you?"

Shiro can't hide the grin, and doesn't try. "Yeah, voluntold."

Keith looks disgusted. "That sucks."

"Maybe." Shiro laughs. "Depends on what I get suckered into, I guess."

"What would you do, instead?"

"Not sure." Shiro closes his laptop because he needs something to do with his hands.

He knows exactly what he'd do, really. He'd take those four hours and spend them watching Keith fly the military simulator. It's not the same as flying it himself, but he's done much better since he learned to lock away that part. He'd be fine with the vicarious joy. And there's something about Keith's flying that's so visceral, so free, that Shiro can only imagine he'd be fine just watching. Forever.

"Anyway," Shiro says, snapping himself back to reality. "Kolivan wants me to set these up monthly, so this will be a regular thing." The words make something in his chest shiver. "And you can always schedule a time in-between, if you have questions or need me to get an obstacle out of your way."

"Okay." Keith stands when Shiro does, and follows him out.

Their team is at the other end of the floor, and it's going to be a long quiet walk if Shiro doesn't come up with something to say. He's almost proud of himself when he does find something that's suitably professional, distant enough without being dismissive.

"From the way Lance talks about research, I have no idea how he got through grad school," Shiro says, with a grin. He nods to three people going past, faces he vaguely recognizes. "Which part of research got your attention, first?"

"Finding the goal." Keith shoves his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. "The part where you can look at the data and see the best choice."

The words stop Shiro in his tracks, thinking over Lance's offhand explanations, Keith's conversations with the others, and conversations with Allura and Lotor at happy hour or over dinner. Across the various leadership positions Shiro's had in his life, he's learned to think strategically out of necessity. No wonder he finds this team easy to manage; all three are tactical. All he needs to do is point them at a goal and they'll figure out the fastest and most efficient answer.

Where Shiro's been struggling is knowing whether the goal is the _right_ one. He can almost feel the lightbulb going off over his head. The few times Keith's clashed with Lance or Pidge, Keith's been trying to thick tactically, and those two have him outranked on that count. But Keith's instincts keep aligning with Shiro's, a sign Keith's instinctively also thinking on a strategic level.

Shiro grins. His grad school advisor was right. Sometimes, watching as a person explored would tell you everything you needed to know.

"Strategy," Shiro says, then frowns. How had Allura explained the different roles? "Maybe you should look at product management, then."

"A manager?" Keith laughs, self-consciously. "I only just got here."

"No, managing the product." Shiro opens his laptop, balancing it with one hand while he types up a quick message to Lotor. "I know someone in another division who works with product managers. I'll get you an introduction—"

"Careful," Keith says. Shiro nearly drops his laptop at Keith's touch on his elbow, tugging him out of the center of the wide corridor. "Blocking traffic," Keith explains, letting go.

"Right, sorry." Shiro steps back, curious at the shivery sensation again, as his message app beeps.

Lotor must've been staring right at the app to respond so quickly. Shiro taps in a quick reply and thanks.

"He says he'll send you an invite directly," Shiro says. "If it sounds interesting, maybe they've got a project you can work on, for your ten-percent time."

Keith flushes. "I don't want to impose—"

"Not at all." Shiro will make sure of it, if that's what Keith wants to do. "Come on, let's go see what the team's destroyed in our absence."

 

 

 

Three weeks becomes four, and Shiro breathes easier as the team's dynamics seem to settle into place. Keith's got a ten-percent project with a senior product manager willing to let Keith have more input, however untutored. Lance's side-project is a company radio station, and he's making a pest of himself using the rest of the team for testing his designs. Pidge's side-project means hacking at the company email system, some idea of setting up alerts that'll show up on twitter. Shiro's not sure why, and doesn't want to ask. 

At least Shiro's finished the first round of modelling. Pidge's team is busy at all hours incorporating it into their analyses, despite Shiro's reminders that going home does not constitute simply a change of scenery before starting work again. 

He's also tentatively working on balancing the friendship required on a team, with just enough distance. Even if it means scouring the internet in the evenings, looking for interesting articles or amusing tweets. Sometimes he sends an email, sometimes he posts in the team's private messaging channel. It gives the team something to talk about when they need a mental break, before they get back to work.

And sometimes, Keith does the same. Except Keith doesn't post to the channel. He sends an email to Shiro, directly. Usually the subject line is just the article's title—something about Harleys, or a humorous send-up of a Harley-Beemer comparison—but twice he's sent an email with a subject line that makes Shiro's heart pound a bit too hard.

 _Saw this and thought of you_. The timestamp is from the evening before.

Fortunately it's buried in the other forty emails he gets every morning. Not like anyone's watching over his shoulder, but if he smiles, it could be for any reason. Except this morning he's ended up with Hunk opposite him.

"So, who's the lucky person?" Hunk asks.

"The what?" Shiro blinks a few times. "Can I get some context?"

"The person emailing you," Hunk says, clearly enjoying Shiro's sudden discomfort. "You're seeing someone who works here?"

"What? No," Shiro says, too late realizing how that sounds. What expression had he worn to make Hunk even ask that? And why was he being asked, anyway?

Lance provides the answer. "Don't mind Hunk, he's always nosy like that."

"If you're seeing someone who doesn't work here, keep the email traffic low," Hunk advises. "Are we allowed to check personal email from work?"

"I'm not—" Shiro says, but Pidge talks right over him. It doesn't help that Keith is giving him a curious look, one Shiro can feel but refuses to meet.

"Use your phone," she says. "Or a linux browser, since they don't track the traffic on those."

"I don't—" Shiro closes his mouth, aware no one's listening, anyway. He's gone beyond his ears feeling hot. His entire face feels on fire, and he glares at his laptop screen as if that would make the blush go away faster.

"Okay, stop," Lance says, always the peacemaker. "No one cares who we email as long as we get our work done, so stop scaring the new people. And besides, of course Shiro's seeing someone. I mean, guys like Shiro are never single."

Guys like him? Shiro glances down at his prosthesis. His face still feels hot enough he's sure he'd scald his fingers, maybe even feel it through the prosthesis fingers.

There's a scar across his nose that everyone notices, and his hair's prematurely white but only his forelock. He does work out, but always in a t-shirt. He's tired of people eyeing the thin long scars across his shoulder and back where he got sewn back together.

There's a story behind those scars, of course. He just got tired of feeling like he had to tell it. It's who he is, now, but he's learned the hard way that people see that as keeping secrets. Not something anyone finds sexy, or approachable. No wonder he like the ones he can't have. It's safer. Maybe he should find a new therapist, now he's got private insurance.

Add in a geeky sub-speciality in engineering, a family he doesn't talk to and another that he still sometimes worries is just pitying him, and none of it seems like a guy anyone would want. Let alone be in demand.

He can't quite look at anyone around the table. The one time he dares to look up, Hunk wears a thoughtful frown, while Pidge stares at him, eyes narrowed, gears clearly turning. Keith looks embarrassed, brows wrinkled, mouth down at the edges.

"Maybe this isn't something to talk about," Keith says, hesitant. "At work."

"Sorry." Lance grimaces. He's quiet for a bit, but he can't not have the last word. "Just saying, if the person I liked looked like that at an email from me, I think that'd be awesome."

Pidge abruptly shifts her laser-focus to Lance, who strangely doesn't turn his words into a joke. He just kind of shrugs, off-hand, his gaze fixed on his laptop. It feels like Lance is avoiding Pidge, and a new detail clicks into place for Shiro. After a moment, Pidge lowers her head to her own laptop, and the room is silent.

Shiro's never been so thankful to see a last-minute invite to one of Thace's team meetings. He closes his laptop, mutters his excuses, and leaves Keith in charge of the daily team meeting.

It takes half the meeting to talk himself down off the ledge. If he's seeing someone, then his actions can be innocent. He can say he's just being friendly. He'd have someone to watch movies with, someone on the back of his bike with their arms around his waist, someone in his bed at night. Of course he wouldn't be looking for someone else to provide what he'd already have. No matter who the person is, or how much Shiro wants to stand close enough to see the color of someone's eyes—

 _Focus._ Shiro repeats it so many times the word loses its meaning.

Thace's meeting done, Shiro runs into Allura chatting with the director from the AI division. Allura smiles, waves Shiro over, introduces him. He's stepping away to make his exit and she catches him by the elbow, hauling him back. When the other director moves on, Allura leans in close.

"I haven't talked to you in three days!" She pokes him in the shoulder. "We talked more when you didn't work here, and I'm not going to let that change. How are you doing?"

"Fine," Shiro mumbles.

"Lovely." Allura gives him a sideways look. "How are you _really_ doing? Wait, on second thought--" She whips out her phone, sends a quick text, and tucks it away. "I believe we should be discussing this with adult beverages. My treat."

"You don't have to," Shiro says.

"Someday you'll stop saying that to me," Allura replies. "Come on, I'm in the mood for sushi."

It's an uncomfortable lunch, though Shiro does his best to hide that. He just doesn't want to talk about it. He's not ready yet, and besides, he's a grown man. He can't be leaning on his best friend all the time like she's some kind of consolation prize for his inability to ditch the baggage. Or to keep from being attracted to all the wrong people.

The benefit of having been friends for almost fourteen years, though, is that Allura can tell when he's not ready to talk, the same way he's always known for her, too. They've both had things to work through, in their time.

They walk back through the business park, an easy stroll on the shaded sidewalk. Allura checks her phone, startling Shiro with her excited gasp.

"Aha!" She holds up her phone, shaking it at him. "Lotor says they're doing another military simulation, with the new pilot from your team. I've been wanting to see one."

"You saw me fly plenty of times," Shiro grumbles. He'd been trying to forget about that simulation, since he does have another set of models he'd promised Pidge by week's end.

"Oh, right," Allura says, unimpressed, dashing ahead of him to wave for a group of people to hold the elevator for them. "Hurry up, I want a good spot."

Shiro jogs to catch up, squeezing in with the rest. Allura beams up at him, and he has to laugh.

"It's different standing on the ground," Allura says. "You went by at like a million miles an hour—"

"One thousand, five-hundred, thirty-four point fifty-four miles an hour," Shiro says, automatically.

"Dork," Allura mutters, elbowing him.

He gasps, clutching his side. She giggles and Shiro elbows her back.

The simulation engine's been set up in a conference room, and everyone in it is part of the team testing the new systems. For once Shiro is glad of the glass walls, because it means Allura can get a close to front-row seat—standing, that is—to see the big screens showing the visual the pilot sees. The heads-up display has changed since Shiro's time, or maybe it's the design team trying new things. The simulation box looks like a large version of an old-fashioned photo booth, but with a folding door instead of a curtain. Keith climbs in, and a moment later the visual shows he's taking off.

Allura tugs on Shiro's sleeve and he bends over, narrating the maneuvers Keith's making. She whispers a few questions about the readouts, and Shiro does his best to explain anything that looks familiar.

Two large numbers on the monitor count up at uneven rates, while a third counts down, but none seem to be time. Shiro can't figure out what the numbers are tracking, or how they relate to any of Keith's movements. Although the simulation isn't staged like a dogfight, there's no doubt Keith is exceptionally versed in aerobatic maneuvers.

From what Shiro can tell, the specific bird is a generic military jet. He's intrigued to see Keith pulling maneuvers that normally would require substantially lower speeds if the jet's not going to break apart mid-air. They're certainly stunts that would've gotten Shiro hauled up and chewed out for, had he ever tried it with a real jet. It hadn't stopped him in the simulator, when he was just messing around, but never for an actual test.

Those three numbers seem to be important, though. It's clear some of the team is calling attention to them, while Keith continues, unaware. When the simulation ends, the numbers stop. Shiro stares at them, puzzled and a bit annoyed, wondering who he could ask.

Keith climbs out of the simulator, grinning wider than Shiro has ever seen. It makes Shiro's chest ache, despite the preoccupied frown he knows he's wearing. He used to look like that, too, after a particularly exhilarating flight. Two of the team stand up to join Keith, as Keith looks across the room at the people standing along the glass walls.

Shiro looks over at that exact instant, meeting Keith's eyes. For a split-second, Keith looks startled. Then the joy drops off his face, his brows coming down in a thunderous scowl. And to Shiro's shock, Keith turns his back on Shiro. Pointedly enough that Allura gives Shiro an astonished look.

"What was that about?" Allura looks around, clearly as relieved as Shiro that no one else looks to have noticed. "I thought you said he was doing well on the team."

"He is," Shiro says, but now he's frowning for a different reason.

Had Keith taken Shiro's expression to mean disapproval? The only story Shiro's given anyone is that he went to grad school, taught, and left to be corporate. If there's anything Shiro does know about pilots, it's that a ground pounder's opinion doesn't mean jack.

He makes his excuses, after promising Allura he'll find out what's wrong and handle it. Unfortunately, Keith doesn't return right away, then Shiro's off to another meeting. The rest of the day, they miss each other, and everyone but Lance is gone by the time Shiro's done with his last meeting. Shiro heads to his bike, troubled. Maybe it was just bad timing, and Keith's not avoiding him. But maybe he is, and Shiro's not sure how to handle it.

Lost in his thoughts, he walks on auto-pilot, almost at his bike before he sees the red Beemer still in its place. Keith stands beside it, arms crossed, jacket on, head down, and looking furious.

"Keith," Shiro says, taken aback.

"I want to know—" Keith's voice is almost hoarse with anger. "What's your problem? Don't like me on the team, stop bullshitting and just say so."


	4. Chapter 4

"What?" Shiro doesn't get a chance to say more.

Keith's obviously been storing up his words, because he unleashes them, full-force. "You were friendly enough until you realized I was on your team. Didn't like someone intruding on your turf? Newsflash, _Major_ , not everyone can be a hotshot fighter pilot." His derision could cut glass. "If you can't get over yourself, that's _your_ problem, not _mine_ —"

"Wait—" Shiro's brain promptly goes on vacation, leaving his mouth without supervision. "How did you know I flew fighter jets? I haven't told anyone."

Keith opens his mouth and no words come out. He just stares at Shiro, dumbfounded.

Shiro has no idea what to do or say. It's been a long time since he's even thought of himself in those terms. Have Allura or Lotor said something? No, they know how he feels about that.

"There's this thing," Keith says, in an oddly strangled voice. "It's called the _internet_."

Bad enough to be attacked, but Shiro isn't up for being patronized. "I know what it is. So?"

"You're on it."

Shiro frowns. "I'm still listed on my old department's site?"

"What? No! All the articles about the youngest major ever promoted to lead the—"

"Stop." Shiro holds up his hands, thankful when Keith cuts off. "Just, give me a moment?"

The request seems to startle Keith enough that he nods, glower easing into wariness.

Shiro takes advantage of the silence to unlock the panniers on his Harley. He drops his bag in one, and retrieves his helmet from the other. He shouldn't be so flattered, maybe, but something in his gut keeps flipping one way, then the other. Keith googled him. Keith wanted to know more about him. It shouldn't mean anything. It still feels like it does. Shiro hefts his helmet in his hand, thinking.

"We got off on the wrong foot," Shiro says. "I want to talk, but I want food, too. Plus, this seems like a conversation that requires adult beverages. And maybe a bit of privacy. Rather than—" He waves a hand at the half-full parking lot, turning it into a casual wave as three engineers from the AI team stroll past. "An audience."

Keith considers that. "Fine."

"Great. Except—I only just moved here," Shiro says. "I'm not really sure what's around. Any chance you know a good place?"

"There's a few sports bars down that way." Keith doesn't sound enthusiastic.

"I was hoping somewhere quieter? I don't like yelling at people while I'm eating."

Keith's brows are still down, but wrinkling in a way that feels almost like reluctant amusement. "We could head to 37th. There's a jazz bar, a pizza place, and I think Thai."

"South on Broad, and left on 37th?"

"Right." Keith does grin, at that. "No, I meant wrong, don't take a left. Take a right."

"You okay with Thai?"

"Spicy is fine." Keith picks up his helmet, shoving it on his head as though issuing a challenge. He throws a leg over his bike, and yanks the Beemer off its kickstand. "See if you can keep up."

"Are we racing?" Shiro snaps on his helmet and zips up his jacket. "I'll give you a head start, then."

Keith gives the Harley a pointed look. "You're kidding."

"You didn't ask where the finish line is." Shiro grins and slings a leg over the Harley, hefting it upright and kicking the stand out of the way. He walks the Harley backwards, turning its bulk in a broad sweep. "I know a great place in San Diego. Best hot pot I've ever had."

He's not sure, but it sounds like Keith mutters _fucking harleys_ under his breath. Shiro laughs and turns the key. The engine roars into life, drowning out the Beemer's quieter purr. Keith's wave over his shoulder looks suspiciously like he's just flipped Shiro off, and for some reason, it makes Shiro grin wider.

Contrary to Keith's attitude, he's a careful rider, living up to the Beemer reputation. Hand signals even for changing lanes, and Shiro stays behind him, enjoying the view.

Shiro finds a spot across the street from the Thai place, unable to shake the long-suffering amusement at himself. His apartment is only three blocks away, on 38th. He could've had Thai sooner, or come out to hear jazz. He'd never even thought to check a map. How much else has he missed?

For over a month, his life has been pretty simple. Get up, run, shower, go to work. After work, head to the gym, get takeout afterwards, and spend the evening catching up on all the reading he never had time to do as a teacher. That whole time, a four-block stretch of shops and restaurants were within walking distance.

He meets Keith at the restaurant's door, and the waitress seats them in a two-person booth, tucked in the corner. It's a weeknight, happy hour, and the place isn't that full. A single lamp hangs over the table, casting a pool of light on the table between them.

Keith's mood has improved, despite the tightness around his mouth. Between Keith's dark hair and the restaurant's dim interior, the brightest spots in Shiro's vision are the yellow squares on Keith's racing jacket. It's easier than looking Keith in the eyes.

Neither say much until the waitress takes their drink orders. A cider for Keith, which surprises Shiro, who orders whiskey, neat. Keith's scowl returns.

"It's been a long day," Shiro says, rubbing his head, before remembering he's using the prosthesis. He gives it a surprised look, realizes what he must look like, and drops his hand, embarrassed. "Haven't really gotten used to it, yet."

"Hunh." Keith leans back for the waitress to set down their drinks, curling his fingers around the brown bottle once she's walked away. He doesn't drink, just waits.

Looks like the conversation ball is in Shiro's corner. He clears his throat.

"I didn't mean to give you the wrong impression. At the simulator." Shiro runs a finger around the rim of his glass. "It's just… a lot of the technology has changed. There were three numbers on the screen, and I didn't know what they meant. I didn't realize it irritated me so much to be ignorant."

"Oh." Keith digs his thumbnail into the paper label on the bottle, tugging. "The middle number is my heart rate, I know that much."

"No wonder I couldn't figure it out." Shiro tries to smile, lighten the mood. "I'm sorry I made you think I didn't approve of your performance."

"It's not really a big deal." Keith takes a drink, raising the bottle, casting his gaze across the empty tables nearby. He lowers the bottle, turns it, pulls off a strip of the label. "What I said, before. Wasn't fair of me. I know it's my problem, not yours."

"I don't know what problem you mean."

Keith's gaze flicks up and bounces away again. Shiro's heart is pounding too fast, and he's not sure why. He takes a careful sip of the whiskey, glad it's adequate. The aftertaste runs dry on his throat. Maybe he should've asked for water, instead.

"I don't understand why you're not doing the simulation, instead," Keith says, so softly Shiro has to strain to hear. "All I've done is shows, skywriting, seasonal crop work. Someone at work's gotta realize. Stupid to waste time on me when they could have you."

"Anyone who thinks time's wasted with you is a fool." Too late, Shiro hears the second meaning. He rearranges his glass on the little napkin to cover. "You're an incredible pilot. You not only have the right combination of talent and sheer audacity, you've got significant skill. Aerobatics is hard. It's a rare pilot who can make it look as easy as you do."

"I'm not—" Keith breaks off, staring at the bottle. His gaze darts up to Shiro's and then away again, mouth curled down at the edges. His fingers continue to worry at the bottle's label. "It's just—I hadn't—how can you not miss it?"

"I don't miss the two years of PT. Or the hours of therapy."

Keith practically recoils, an apology flashing across his face.

"Sorry." Shiro grimaces. "I didn't mean to sound so harsh. It's just… it's been seven years. I loved flying, but it was never really where my heart was at. In the end, fate sort of decided it for me. I found other things to do."

"Where was your heart at?" Keith flinches. "Don't have to answer that—"

"Astronomy." Shiro smiles around the rim of his glass. "That required a degree I couldn't afford, and the Air Force agreed to foot the bill. I chose flying 'cause it seemed like more fun than ground support."

"Was it?"

"Yes, until it wasn't." Shiro spreads his right hand, palm flat against the table. "I got college out of the deal, but in the end, the price was too high."

"So you were only in the military for five years?" Keith seems to be puzzling something out.

"Ten. I could've done disability discharge, but waited to take an early out." Shiro shrugs. Not much else to say. Must be the whiskey that has him tempted to say more, despite that. Or maybe it's just the way Keith listens, like Shiro's the only voice he hears.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to pry."

"No, it's not all bad." Shiro ponders his right hand, drums the fingers, once again momentarily delighted at the way the prosthesis reacts. "In a way, the accident's why I'm even here."

Keith's brows go up, a silent question.

Shiro swirls the whiskey in his glass, watching the liquid slide up the sides and recede. "A regular day in the sky, then I hit mach-three and the plane... just broke apart. Took some of me with it. Everything after that is a blur, until maybe a month later."

The waitress delivers their meals, checks their drinks, and leaves them alone after that. For once, Shiro's glad of the neglect.

"At first they said pilot error." Shiro's mouth twists. That's one humiliating memory he'd love to forget, but he's accepted the bitterness will always linger. "Then another jet in my squadron almost did the same, but managed to eject. The final official verdict was to blame the support crews for inadequate testing."

Keith pokes his fork into his red curry, hunting for bits of duck. "And you didn't agree."

"Just before—it'd felt like the wings had flexed. By the time I could say anything, my report was suspect. My memory was patchy, after all." Shiro stirs his coconut soup. Easier than meeting Keith's intense gaze. "I didn't know a thing about engineering, but between PT and therapy, I had the time. And I needed to know. To understand why."

"It seems like overkill, though." Keith's smile is a sly thing, come and gone. "Most people would've read a few books. Not gone for a doctorate."

Shiro laughs, the first genuine laugh all day, it feels like. "If I were any good at moderation, I never would've been a fighter pilot in the first place."

Keith leans forward to take a bite of duck, and the overhead light catches his open smile.

"It's not where I'd planned to end up," Shiro admits. "I certainly never expected to be any good at it. But… I like to think I've helped make sure accidents like mine never happen again."

Keith nods, and they eat in companionable silence for a moment. Shiro's stomach unknots enough for his appetite to kick in. He's halfway through his soup when he looks up. Keith's no longer eating, just stirring the curry in slow circles.

"What's wrong?" Shiro asks.

Keith sets his fork down, tips his bottle forward, checking. The waitress goes past and Keith raises the bottle at her. Keith leans his cheek on his fist, staring off across the restaurant, now filling up with a dinner crowd. A second cider finally before him, again Keith only rubs the sides, smoothing the condensation.

"I checked the company's website," Keith says. "Thank you for helping me find that side project, but there's no point."

"Why not? Iverson passed along some pretty glowing reports from Eliza about your work."

"When this project ends, I can't transfer." Keith looks up, then down at his bowl. "The job requires a college degree."

Shiro immediately thinks of Pidge. No degree, either, but she's also got ideas in that brain that most colleges are light-years shy of comprehending. "If you've done any coursework, there are waivers—"

"I only have a GED," Keith whispers. "I dropped out at sixteen. Couldn't do school and a full-time job, and… I chose the job." He shrugs.

"The company will help pay for classes," Shiro suggests. "If you start with the next semester, it'd be enough for a waiver." When Keith doesn't look up, an uneasy feeling tiptoes up Shiro's spine. "I hope you're not thinking of quitting. The team needs you."

"Save it." Keith's wry smile softens the words. "I've already been told quitting won't be accepted."

Shiro sits back, not sure how to react. Keith's head dips until his fist is against his temple, and he's looking up at Shiro through those messy bangs.

When Shiro can catch his breath again, he asks. "Who?"

"Kolivan." Keith shrugs with one shoulder, and drops his hand, sitting up as well. "It's a long story."

"I told you mine," Shiro reminds him, with a quick grin. "Not saying you have to tell me. Just pointing it out."

"Unh-hunh." Keith takes another long swallow from his drink.

The bob of his throat makes Shiro swallow hard, as well. Keith glances sideways at Shiro, from under his eyelashes. It doesn't help Shiro's brain when Keith sets down the bottle, tongue darting out to lick his lips. If this was a date, Shiro would know exactly what those signals mean.

Shiro squashes that thought down, as fast and hard as he can. He picks up his half-finished whiskey, then sets it down again. He should've ordered the water. He should've picked a noisy sports bar by work. He should've called in sick that morning.

"My mom was Navy. Turns out Kolivan was her commanding officer," Keith says.

And to think Shiro had worried about nepotism from working on the same team as Pidge. He's not sure what to say.

"Didn't know before I was hired. My mom kept her maiden name. Third day on the job, Kolivan saw me in the hallway." Keith shrugs. "I take more after my mom than my dad."

"Oh."

"Yeah. My folks got married young. Jobs were scarce. Mom joined the military, ended up specializing in… something classified. From the hints my Dad dropped, she did infiltration. But rescuing people."

"Extraction," Shiro supplies. "When a small force goes into hostile territory to get someone out."

"Guess so. She was gone for six months at a time, sometimes longer. Once, she was gone two years."

"Navy's tough on families like that." Shiro'd had no one to come home to, but he'd hoped that someday he would. That hope had steered him away from being a Naval pilot.

"Tougher when I was twelve. Drunk driver. Mom was overseas on another classified mission, and Dad… didn't make it." Keith swirls his bottle, watching the liquid slosh. "We lived off-base, so civilians took over. Put me in the system and left me there. Mom didn't find me again until I was twenty."

"I'm sorry." That gets Shiro a mild glare.

"You had nothing to do with it."

"I know. But it had to have been horrible, and I'm sorry you were put through that."

"Oh." Keith's expression softens, shaded with confusion. "Sometimes I wonder what—" He shakes himself, slightly. "Doesn't matter. I dropped out of school to work at the airfield. By seventeen I had the hours, and got my license. I finally went to night school and got my GED, because the air field wouldn't give me a raise without it."

"And you did that, while living on your own?"

Keith's lips curl, a sardonic expression. "No one else was gonna do it for me."

"That takes dedication. Lots of people don't have that."

"Maybe. Anyway, Kolivan told me he'd given my mom extra leave so she could deal with the court, forcing them to say where I'd been placed. She got promoted and transferred, and eventually they lost touch."

"And now he feels personally responsible for you."

Keith looks uncomfortable. "Bad enough, but he's kinda..."

"Pushy?" Shiro grins. "It's a CO thing. Just salute and add 'sir' to the end of every sentence."

Keith makes a face.

Shiro doesn't want to end their conversation yet, but the place is filling up. The waitress has been by twice. He downs the rest of his whiskey, hissing at the burn, and signals to the waitress.

Fifteen minutes later, the bill split between them and paid, they're out on the street. A beautiful early summer evening, and the shops are brightly lit down the street. This is where Shiro's supposed to say good night and stroll over to his bike without looking back. He can't seem to move. Keith takes a step back, and Shiro just can't let him go, either.

"What's down that way?" Shiro points off down the street, towards a shop sign hanging over the rest. "The big pink ball."

"Ice cream parlor, I think." Keith doesn't quite hide his smile at Shiro's obvious excitement. "Old-fashioned theme, I think. Sundaes and stuff."

Shiro grins. "That'd be perfect after curry."

"You said you liked spicy." The way Keith says it sounds like he's discovered a weakness on Shiro's part, and isn't impressed.

Shiro ignores the implied jibe. "I do, but I love sweet more. Come on, you can't let me go in there alone. I'll never get out alive."

 

 

 

There's a line, of course, and Shiro's fine with that. He gets Keith talking about some of the aerobatic maneuvers in the simulation, and Keith pries stories out of Shiro about teaching. They're both tiptoeing around the obvious minefields, trying hard to find the few feet of common ground.

Instead of sundaes, they get cones, and walk the street, still talking. People brush past them, couples window-shopping along the lamp-lit street. Clusters of people meeting, entering restaurants, departing with hugs and kisses on the cheek. Keith slides through the crowds, while Shiro just keeps walking. His height and wide shoulders make buying suits a hassle, but it's a plus on crowded streets. People see him coming and move.

When they stop at the corner, Keith holds out an extra napkin. "Your cone's dripping."

"Oh, shit." Shiro licks his wrist, then raises the cone, tilting his head back.

He hasn't done this since he was five, maybe, but he can't resist. He sucks out the melted ice cream, cheeks hollowing at the pressure. Someone bumps him, and Keith catches Shiro's elbow, steering him out of the way. Shiro releases the cone slowly, testing with his tongue to make sure it's no longer dripping.

The ice cream manages its revenge, a final melting dollop landing on his cheek, dripping down to his mouth. Shiro runs his tongue around his lips, grinning at Keith's raised brows.

"Did I get it all?" Shiro asks, presenting himself for inspection.

"You missed a spot." Keith points.

Shiro nearly crosses his eyes, trying to see. "Where?"

"It's—" Keith reaches out, fingertips coming close enough to Shiro's skin that Shiro can feel the warmth. Keith halts, and Shiro holds his breath, waiting. "It's, uh, here." Keith yanks his hand back, pointing at his own chin. "Napkins."

"Thanks," Shiro says, chest shivering in a mix of disappointment and anticipation. He refuses to acknowledge it, but there's no ignoring the way Keith's gaze is fixed on Shiro's mouth. "Shit, it's still—" Shiro raises his hand, licking off the melting ice cream. "I'm out of practice with this."

Keith's eaten his own ice cream methodically, and he's down to the last few inches of cone. He finishes it off and licks his fingers.

People swirl past them. The light's changed. They can cross, but Shiro's frozen to the spot, watching Keith slowly withdraw his finger from between his lips. This, this would be the moment, Shiro knows. He's leaning forward before he realizes, and it has to be a trick of the light, the impression Keith's heavy-lidded, chin tipping up.

Someone bangs into Shiro, apologizes, and it's enough to jolt Shiro back to reality. Keith looks puzzled, and Shiro takes a last lick of his cone. He tosses the mess into a nearby trashcan and waves Keith across the street.

Shiro shoves his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders. That was too close. He needs to remember the entire point is just to be on good terms. The team's work is too valuable for Shiro to wreck it.

Eight in the evening, the sun has set, and the foot traffic's getting heavier. Keith's steps slow even more outside a small tea shop, and it's another excuse to chat longer. Not enough of a line in Shiro's opinion, but it means they've both got to stay until their iced teas are done. Hard to ride with only one hand, and the Harley doesn't have cup-holders.

They walk back on the other side of the street, talking about Pidge's team and Hunk's ideas and the design changes Lance's suggested. Keith might not have a formal education, but he's sharp and he's got a solid instinct for ferreting out the point of any action. He's easy to talk to, and he listens with a half-smile that twists into a crooked grin when Shiro cracks a stupid joke.

At the corner, there's a tiny park as buffer between the main broadway and an older hotel. Flower beds and shade trees, filtering the light from the old-fashioned lamp posts. Shiro claims an empty bench, and Keith sits beside him, legs stretched out. Traffic rolls by, people's laughter and chatter floating across the little green space.

Shiro swirls his iced tea, slurps the last dregs, lets the cup rest on his thigh. "If you could do anything for a living, what would it be?"

"Anything in particular?" Keith seems intent on making his tea last as long as possible, such small sips. "You mean like a job?"

"Sure. What would you do?"

"I'd…" Keith's tone is gloomy. "Never mind, it's stupid."

"You want to become a vacuum-cleaner salesman?" Shiro pretends to guess. "A circus clown. A barista?"

Keith snorts. "You can stop now. Also, I hate coffee."

That explains the tea shop. Shiro doesn't mind either. Being military meant drinking whatever he gets. He'd drink tar. In fact, he's pretty sure he has, at some point.

"Fighter pilot," Keith whispers. "But not Naval. I want to fly a Falcon."

"Lawn dart," Shiro says, approvingly. "Last time I heard, Falcons are only used for aggressor units."

Keith nods. He's done some research, then. "Doesn't matter. I'm too old, now."

"If you don't mind, how old are you?" Shiro had guessed at around Lance's age, like twenty-five or twenty-six.

"Twenty-six," Keith says.

"You could still do it."

Keith shoots him a skeptical look.

"Enroll in classes," Shiro says, waving his cup with his gesture. "Enlist before you turn twenty-eight, and request a waiver to finish school. Graduate, do OCS, do your twenty. Waiver's good until your thirty-fifth birthday."

Keith's eyes are wide. "You're kidding."

Shiro wishes he were. He wishes he were the kind of person to never say anything, and then Keith wouldn't end up a statistic like Shiro did, or worse. But he also knows what it's like to want something and never get it. He can't sit by and watch someone else never even know their dream is possible.

"Still." Keith deflates again. "Seems like you'd have to be something, to get a waiver."

"You have a pilot's license, and aerobatic skills that leave mebreathless. If the board doesn't grant that waiver, I'll dig out my last set of medals and eat them. With ketchup."

Keith's laugh is a short bark. "Why ketchup?"

"I hate ketchup." Shiro pretends to shudder. "Worst thing I could think of, to get my point across."

Keith's grin is wide, his gaze distant, thinking it over.

Shiro can't seem to look away. He should, but he can't. The park's lamp posts drench them in a pool of light, turning Keith's skin to gold. A single bead of sweat drips down Keith's temple, glistening, and Shiro wants to wipe it away. And then kiss where his fingers had touched, and he really needs to stop thinking. Maybe he should've had two whiskeys, instead. Or none.

"I'll think about it," Keith promises. "Thanks for telling me."

"You'd make an amazing fighter pilot." He leaves off the need to acknowledge authority, the ability to take orders without knowing the big picture, or any picture. Time enough later for those realities. "Besides, if you change your mind, college credits will still be useful. For transferring to another position once our project's done."

"Oh, right." Keith rattles his half-full cup. "It's getting late. Guess I've kept you long enough. You've probably got stuff to do."

Something in the words feels like a question, hanging in the air between them. Shiro desperately wants to say no. There must be a reason to linger, some topic that skirts all the minefields, gives him an excuse. He catches himself. Keith's being polite and giving them both a way to say good night before things get awkward.

"Yeah, probably." Shiro shoves himself up from the bench, offering Keith a hand up without thinking.

Too late he realizes: his left hand, but Keith's right hand is already in his. A strong grip, and Shiro leans back, hauling Keith to his feet with a grunt. For a split-second they're holding hands in a pocket of golden light with darkness beyond. Keith opens his mouth, says nothing, licks his lips. His brows come down, and Shiro lets go of Keith's hand.

"Where did you park?" Shiro asks, though he's pretty sure he saw Keith's bike, a half-block down from his. "I'm—I'm across from the Thai place."

"Just past there," Keith says.

Whatever they talk about on the too-short walk to Shiro's bike, Shiro's not even sure. All he can do is watch Keith's flickering smile, bend over to hear Keith's words over the people around them. The plastic lid of the cup in his hand feels like his last grasp on reality.

There's no mistaking his big black Harley, taking up a space fit for a compact car. "My bike," Shiro says, because his mouth keeps moving and he can't seem to stop.

"Yeah." Keith finishes his own tea, takes Shiro's cup, and throws both away. He returns, wiping his hands on his jeans. "It was, uh. I'm glad we talked."

"Sorry I confused you," Shiro says. "I didn't mean to make you think I didn't want you on the team."

"My misunderstanding, not yours." Keith shrugs. "I'm the one who kinda blew up at you."

Shiro smiles, wry. "I hadn't really given you a reason to not blow up, I think."

That gets another quiet laugh from Keith, who holds out his hand. Raised, like an inverted shake. This time, Shiro uses his prosthesis, and while it hides Keith's warmth from him, Shiro can still feel the pressure of Keith's palm against his. Enough to know to let go when Keith's hand shivers against his fingers.

"Anyway. I had a good time," Keith says. "It's been… kinda hard, not feeling like I belonged."

"You're not alone," Shiro says. "I still feel like I'm treading water, most days."

"That supposed to make me feel better?" Keith grumbles, but his mouth curls up at one end. "Anyway," he says, again. "So we're friends, now?"

The word hits Shiro like a physical blow. He keeps the smile on his face. "Yeah. We're good."

"Okay. Good." Keith takes a step back, with a half-wave. "See you in the morning."

Shiro wants to crack a joke, make light of the moment, but that'd just turn into an excuse to keep talking. He'll see Keith at work. An hour here, or there, depending on his meetings schedule. They're enough on the same page now, and it'll be good. Shiro gives Keith a lazy salute. Keith laughs, walking backwards a few more steps before turning and melting into the crowd.

Helmet out and settled on the bike, Shiro waits for a gap in the traffic. He tries to be pleased with himself. He's taken what could've been a disastrous situation—even worse than disastrous, now that he knows Kolivan has a personal interest in Keith's success—and he's got the start of a solid working friendship. He can't figure out why he doesn't feel happier.

 

 

 

Shiro collapses onto his sofa, dropping his bag beside him. Alone in the empty apartment, there's no lying to himself, not even anything to do to fill the space in lieu of lying. He could unpack the boxes of books he'd brought from storage two weeks before, but he still hasn't bought shelves. Between dinner and ice cream, he's eaten enough for three days, so there's no point killing time in the kitchen.

He picks up one of the books he's reading, stares at the cover, and tosses the book back on the bench that passes for a makeshift coffee table. The windows are dark, the blinds pulled up, enough to see his blurry reflection. He's not in the mood to stare at his own image, when the ones in his head are so vivid, so tantalizing.

A faint buzzing sound comes from his bag. Shiro digs around without looking, finding his cell phone, left abandoned the entire time he'd been with Keith. Shiro unlocks the phone, holding it over his head rather than muster the energy to sit up.

A text from Matt. _Mom says if you don't call, no apple pie for you on the Fourth._

Shiro whistles. Colleen means business. He taps the icon for the Holts. The phone rings, once, twice. Shiro shoves his bag off the sofa and lies down, propping his ankles on the far arm. Someday he'll find a sofa long enough for him.

"Shiro?" Sam Holt answers. "Long time no hear from, boy."

"Hello, sir," Shiro says, grinning. Sam's been telling him for years that formality isn't necessary. Shiro's been pretending for years to forget and call Sam sir, anyway.

Sam grunts. "Hold on." The phone crackles, muffling Sam's shout. "Colleen! Your other son is on the line!"

A minute later there's a click, and Colleen comes on, muttering to herself as she gets the headset working, then yells to Sam to put the phone in its stand. Shiro waits, used to the Holts' bizarre quirks, like having a house with four desktop computers, three laptops, five tablets, and only one cell phone.

"Sweetie," Colleen says. "I was starting to get worried. How've you been? How's the new job? Is Katie giving you too many headaches?"

"She's fine, Mom, just makes my brain explode daily," Shiro says, wriggling down into the cushions and getting comfortable. "Job's okay but it's a lot of meetings. And emails."

"That's corporate for you. All meetings, little to show for it. It's only been a month, though."

"Are you going to tell me to give it time?"

"I'm going to tell you if you have any doubt, to get the hell out of dodge, now." Colleen's voice is crisp, but there's no doubting the affection. "Before it sucks you in completely."

Shiro laughs. "It's not actually that bad."

"I'm a failure as a mother," Colleen sighs. "That's two children I've lost to the corporate monster. Speaking of monsters, Katie sounded like she was dropping hints that you've met someone."

"I, uh—" He doesn't want to talk about it. But he does want to talk about it, too.

She's the closest thing he's ever had to a maternal figure. Freshman year, someone—whose name Shiro can't even remember anymore—dropped Shiro after the third date, no explanation, no warning. Somehow Colleen had known—Matt's doing—and she'd swept into town, arriving while Matt was in class. Shiro had gone to lunch with Colleen, instead. He'd ended up telling her everything before the appetizers had even arrived.

It's not that he can't keep secrets from her. He just doesn't want to.

"I did meet someone," Shiro whispers, closing his eyes.

Colleen hums, under her breath. "Pretty sure you're supposed to sound happier about it. Unless you're still in the stage of not knowing if you're liked back?"

"I am," he says, and tries not to sound like he's eighteen again. "As a friend."

"Oh, sweetie."

"We work together," Shiro adds.

"That's going to be rough," Colleen sighs.

No getting around this one. Not that he really wants to. "Don't tell Pidge this, but this person… we're on the same team."

Colleen's silent for a moment. "You're not obligated to answer this, but I'd appreciate if you would. This person wouldn't happen to be the designer on your team?"

"What, Lance?" Surprise forces a laugh out of Shiro. "God, no. Why?" When Colleen doesn't reply, Shiro's eyes pop open. "Pidge likes Lance? Really?"

"Breathe a word of this and you're cut off from pie forever, Shiro."

"I'd never," Shiro says, laughing. "Not a word from me. Just, Lance. Go figure."

"What are you not telling me?" Colleen's suspicious now, but amused.

"I think Lance likes Pidge. Just a sense." Shiro gets comfortable again, as the laughter dies in his chest. "No, it's not Lance. At ease, Mom, I wouldn't do that to Pidge."

"Well, it's her issue to deal with. I've already told her that if she likes him, she needs to transfer off the team, or he does. With as much work as your company has, it shouldn't be a problem."

"It's an important project," Shiro protests.

"Every project is always important. What about this person you like? What do they do?"

He knows what she's angling for, and he cuts it off with a sigh. "He can't transfer off our team. His skillset is rather… specific. It doesn't matter, Mom, he was real clear—"

"I'm going to stop you right there. How do you know? Was he speaking truth, or just saying that because of fraternization rules? I can't believe a person exists who wouldn't like you back."

No, Keith's fine. It's Shiro who always likes the ones he shouldn't. For whatever reason.

"Life is short, Shiro. Jobs will come and go. Love, not so much."

"I don't—that's more—" Shiro can't seem to get his thoughts in order. "It's just—"

"You say hormones, we're going to have words." Colleen, ever the astrobiologist. The only thing quicker to get her ire is homeopathy.

"I was going to say an adolescent crush." Shiro wasn't, but he's good at recovering.

"That's how it started with Sam, and look where we are now. My point is you've never fallen easy. Or fast."

"I haven't fallen."

The line goes silent, Colleen's version of skepticism. He can almost see her, stopping mid-pace in the middle of her office, hands on her hips.

"Not yet," Shiro whispers. "I can't. I got hired to work on this project—"

"It's not the only thing they want you for, or they wouldn't have fought so hard to get you."

"I told him about the accident," Shiro says.

Colleen's inhale is audible. The Holts had been there for all of it, and they knew better than anyone how private he was about that pain.

"It's so easy to talk to him. I don't know why." Shiro sighs and pours out the entire story. His mistakes, Keith's anger, Shiro's apology and offer to start over. "And then we just kept talking. About everything."

"It's a rare and wonderful thing to be so simpatico, so quickly."

Shiro sticks to his guns. "Friends can do that, too."

"Alright, have it your way."

"That's the plan." Shiro grins at Colleen's long-suffering sigh.

"Weather report says it's going to be clear skies this weekend, perfect for barbecue. Matt's going to be in town on Saturday. You and Katie come down on Friday, and you can leave Sunday morning."

Shiro tenses, remembering his promise to Pidge. "Uh, Pidge's car is in the shop, I think."

"Fine, bring that death machine. I expect helmets, and stay off the highway. I don't like you out there with no protection around all those crazy drivers."

"Mom, it'll be fine. I've been riding for ten—"

"And I want you to keep riding, sweetie, and that means you need to stay safe. Off the highway, Shiro. Don't make me worry."

Shiro relents. "It'll take longer, if we do the old roads."

"Better than never arriving at all. I'll email Katie and let her know." Colleen's smile is obvious in her voice. "I'll have Sam move the mower out of the way, and you can park in the garage. The two of you can surprise Matt when he arrives."

"If you warn Pidge, you know Matt'll find out."

"Then I won't. You work together, you can kidnap her easily."

Shiro laughs. "She's not twelve anymore. She has a mean right hook."

"I don't want to know how you know that. Alright, sweetie, it's getting late. Love you, and call me before you leave on Friday. I want to know when to start worrying."

"I will." Shiro hauls himself upright. "Thanks for listening."

"It's what a mom does, Shiro. Don't you forget that."

"Never," Shiro promises. "Love you, too."

He hangs up the phone, checking the time. Past ten o'clock. He tosses the phone back on his bag and leans back, staring at the ceiling.

_So we're friends, now?_

Shiro groans and runs his hands down his face. Friends. Better than sworn enemies, at least. The humor feels hollow. He wanders into his bedroom, stripping off his clothes and getting ready for bed. Fifteen minutes later, he crawls into bed with a book, propping himself upright and getting comfortable.

Friends. Right. It's better he get ahold of himself, now. Before it's too late.

 

 

 

He wakes in the morning, certain of one thing.

It's too late.


	5. Chapter 5

Shiro yawns and pushes the laptop case's strap back onto his shoulder. The elevator's taking forever.

"Late night?" Hunk asks, from Shiro's right side.

"No, just didn't—" Shiro looks to his other side, as Keith joins them. "Uh, you're both here early." He can be cool. Smile, be friendly.

"Got a meeting with the engineering squad," Hunk says.

"Breakfast meeting with Eliza." Keith yawns and rubs his eyes. "Only time free on her calendar."

The elevator dings. Hunk puts out an arm, holding the doors for them. He follows them in, as Shiro punches the button for their floor.

"There should be a rule about meetings before ten in the morning," Hunk says. "Could you hit it for six? Doing the fancy-big conference room this morning."

"Is that good?" Shiro taps the button for the top floor. The elevator's lights glint on his prosthetic hand, and his brain abruptly halts, an image flashing into his head. "Uh," he says, and hits the button for the third floor.

"You have a meeting, Shiro?" Keith asks, but not in the manner of commiserating. He asks like he really wants to know.

Shiro can't look, afraid to see the way Keith's mouth forms the shape of Shiro's name. Not after last night's dreams. "No, just need to swing by the lab." Better to stare at the door, make excuses. "Sorry, not enough coffee this morning."

Too many thoughts are sparking in his brain, and that morning rasp in Keith's voice—asking if everything's okay with the cybernetic arm—only makes Shiro's brain light up even more. Ulaz' systems are logging every movement, and why only now is Shiro realizing that. If he were alone in the elevator, he'd bang his head on the wall.

He taught himself to be left-handed in everything, but last night he'd woken from sweat-soaked dreams with his right hand around his dick, and the distanced touch made it feel so much like someone else's hand…

When he'd finally fallen back asleep, his alarm had woken him from another dream, an endless loop of Keith drinking, lips sealed around the bottle's mouth. A second go did nothing to clear Shiro's head, nor did his run. He'd had a third go in the shower, torn between shame at thinking of a friend that way, and a longing so deep his legs almost gave way when he came.

He can't be thinking these thoughts while Keith and Hunk are right there, chatting about the company's biomechatronics projects.

"Shiro?" Hunk asks. "Your floor."

"Oh, right." Shiro can't look either of them in the eye. He waves over his shoulder, instead. With his right hand, and that somehow makes it worse. "I'll see you later."

The doors close, and Shiro switches his bag to his right hand so he can wipe his forehead with his left. Thankfully it's early enough that Ulaz is alone in the labs, peering at his laptop screen.

"Morning," Shiro says, setting down his bag.

"Everything going okay?" Ulaz points to the stool beside his work table.

Shiro sits automatically, pushing up his sleeve and laying his right hand on the table. "No problems. It's doing great."

"Good." Ulaz pushes at the cover on the back of Shiro's wrist, plugs in a cord, and taps on his laptop. "Since you're here, I won't have to load up the newest patch over the crummy wifi here."

"Oh, actually—" Shiro contemplates ripping the cord from the arm, but there's no point. His arm's been talking to his home wifi system all night. "It's, uh."

"Yes?" Ulaz raises his eyes to meet Shiro's, expression neutral. "Something wrong?"

"Not really. Well, uhm." Shiro rubs the back of his neck with his left hand, and tries not to squirm. "I was just curious. That is, uhm, about what the arm's recording."

"All movements," Ulaz says, knowing full well Shiro's aware of that.

He taps a few keys, and turns the laptop so Shiro can see. The data unrolls across the page, a series of lines, spikes and lulls. The arm's movements, Shiro's heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure.

"Three more weeks, and we should have enough—" Ulaz stops, brows rising slowly.

The graph jitters, a compressed point of rapid, repetitive movement. For about ten minutes, at two hundred hours. The line for Shiro's heart rate starts smooth, becomes erratic, spikes in tandem with the sudden arm movement, and gradually drops after the arm stills. Another series of spikes at six hundred hours, followed by smoother large-range movement for a half-hour, with elevated heart rate. His usual morning run—and then just past seven hundred hours, a final repetition of that fast-movement pattern.

Shiro gives serious thought to crawling under the table.

"Shiro," Ulaz says. "I'm a doctor, and you being an employee will never override patient-doctor privilege."

"Thanks?"

"I will say, between men—"

"Please don't," Shiro says. "Really. "

Ulaz gives Shiro a long look, and closes the graph to reveal a spreadsheet, every row and column filled. The raw data, Shiro guesses. Ulaz highlights a few lines, scrolls, and highlights a few more.

"Understand this from a doctor's perspective, Shiro. For seven years, you've found ways to compensate with your non-dominant hand. If you've been able to regain the use of your dominant hand in all ways—"

Shiro coughs.

"And I do mean _all_ ways," Ulaz continues, undeterred. "That means you're adapting to the technology. It's letting you continue life as you once had. I count that as a success."

"Great, but—" Shiro glances at the data scrolling up Ulaz's screen. "It's still—"

"Locked. I've set aside those rows. Do you cook?"

"Excuse me?"

"If you could, practice chopping vegetables with your dominant hand. Your data hasn't had a great deal of repetitive, limited-range motions, and we could use that information." The laptop dings, and Ulaz unplugs Shiro's arm. "You're all set."

Shiro's pretty sure Ulaz is hinting at something, but he doesn't ask. He says thanks, almost forgets his bag, and somehow holds onto enough shreds of his dignity to pass for normal all the way back to his team's meeting room.

He holds it together through the team's morning meeting, then through Thace's team meeting, and then another impromptu hallway meeting, whiteboarding a new stabilizer design with Allura's top engineer, Olia. Shiro plots the graph, then colors it in.

"Ulaz wants me to test smaller movements, from the wrist." Shiro hopes he sounds casual enough about it. Casual needs to be his new word.

"Testing's the worst part of anything," Olia agrees. "Amazed he's not given you an exercise program."

Shiro says something about Ulaz and Thace having his workout regime, right as Keith comes around the corner. He's with Eliza and another woman; Keith waves as the trio passes. Shiro replies with a quick nod as Keith turns away. Shiro gets one glimpse of Keith's slender hips in those black jeans and the pen in Shiro's hand flips out of his fingers. The pen goes flying in one direction, the cap in another.

Olia scrambles after the pen, while Shiro catches, fumbles, and drops the cap. He sighs and bends down, scooping up the misbehaving plastic.

He can't possibly be fooling anyone.

 

 

 

Shiro makes it to Friday with no more mishaps. Telling himself he's an adult, this is a work environment, that this is just one more person who's off-limits. He wakes before dawn on Friday, chest heaving, and remembers in time to use his left hand, instead.

He should get up, go for a run, but instead he rolls over, face planted in his pillow. He's got better self-control than this, he knows. It doesn't make any sense why it shatters just remembering the way Keith smiled at one of Shiro's jokes.

At work, the morning's quiet until the team rolls in around ten. Then it's intermittent conversation as they address some of the defects revealed in Hunk's and Shiro's tests. At noon, Shiro stretches and gets up from his seat.

"Heading to the cafe," he says. "Anyone else up for lunch?"

"Can't," Hunk says. "I want to finish this." He digs out his phone and taps the screen. "Ordering a sandwich, if you could bring it back with you?"

"Sure. How about the rest of you?"

"I could use the break," Keith says, standing. When no one else does, Keith gives Pidge and Lance a curious look. "Aren't you two coming?"

"Just about done." Lance has been pretty intent on his design review. "Go on ahead, I'll find you there."

"Alright," Shiro says. "Pidge, come on. Not good to starve your brain."

"Fine." Pidge hops up. "Don't take too long, Lance."

Lance waves without looking up, and Shiro pushes open the door, holding it for Keith and Pidge. They chat about random work gossip most of the way to the cafe, and Shiro's glad of Pidge filling in the gaps. They get in line to order, and Shiro's phone chirps.

"Looks like Lance just got pulled into a lunch meeting," Shiro reports. "He's taking a raincheck."

Keith pauses mid-order to ask, "Should we pick something up for him?"

"I'll ask." Shiro taps the reply, then shakes his head. "He says they're helping themselves to leftovers from an exec meeting."

The cafe is loud, enough people talking around them that it's not until Pidge gets her sandwich to go that Shiro realizes she hadn't snarked about Lance not joining them.

"Hey," she says, waving her wrapped sandwich. "I just remembered something I've got to do. I'm going to get Hunk's sandwich for him and head back, now."

"You need to pace yourself," Shiro admonishes. "There's a reason we have lunch breaks."

"I know, but I'm just…" Pidge shrugs. Just like that, she's gone, ducking through the line of people wending along the cafe wall, waiting for their turn.

"That was fast," Keith says, startled.

"Hunh?" Shiro bends over so Keith can repeat it. "Oh, yeah. Sorry, it's just really noisy in here."

"What, don't like yelling at people while you eat?" Keith's grin is quicksilver. "Let's sit outside, then."

They're in luck; one of the picnic benches is unoccupied. It's a pretty space, trees providing shade, with mulched bark crunching underfoot. No conversation at first; Shiro tries to concentrate on the flavors of mustard and rye, the texture of the beef, anything but the way Keith's lips purse around the straw.

Keith's gaze wanders across the courtyard, watching other people coming and going. He seems to be pondering something, and Shiro lets him be, content to wait. This is one thing Shiro does know how to do. Everything he's ever achieved has always required patience.

When Keith's expression clears, shoulders relaxing, Shiro knows a decision's been made.

"I'm going to meet with Iverson about how to apply for school assistance," Keith says. "I've been looking at the university's programs."

"That's great. Find something you like?" Shiro's smile falters when Keith's eyes go wide, as if Shiro's words were a surprise, somehow. Shiro takes a drink to cover the confusion, swallows, puts the cup down. "Which programs, I mean."

"Right." Keith frowns at his sandwich. "Do you like pickles?"

"You don't?" Shiro accepts the long slice of pickle, crunching it between his teeth with a grin. He loves the tangy bite of vinegar, but Keith's stopped talking. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Keith picks up the second half of his sandwich. "Guess the company would prefer business management or marketing."

"What do _you_ want to study?"

Keith tucks in a piece of overhanging lettuce. "Anthropology, maybe. Or human-computer interaction?"

"Ask Lance about that second one. I think that's what his degree is in." Shiro relaxes, feeling himself on better ground. "You don't sound that sure, though."

"The university has an independent study program. Not sure what that means, but the degree is called strategic thinking. Sounds the coolest." Keith shrugs. "Not sure I could get in, though."

"No reason not to try." Shiro finishes off the pickle and wipes his fingers on a napkin. "Depends on what you want to do. Afterwards."

"Well." Keith takes another long drink, looking around, not quite meeting Shiro's eyes. He sets down the sandwich, wipes his mouth. "Not military."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." Keith's grin comes out again, higher at one corner, almost rueful. "Kinda mentioned it to my mom… and she kinda went a bit ballistic."

Shiro laughs right as he swallows, chokes on his bite, and has to cough hard to clear his throat. "That bad?"

"Lot worse, actually." Keith's true grin breaks the rest of the way through. "Something about how one person sacrificing twenty years of their life and liberty for the government is enough for any family and there's no reason for me to do it, too. Uhm. No offense."

"None taken." Shiro finishes off his sandwich. "Moms are good for that kind of reality check."

Keith's drinking again, but his brows go up, a question.

"I got an earful earlier this week." Shiro sighs. "Made me feel eighteen again."

"Don't you mean eight?" Keith shakes his cup, rattling the ice. He seems to be one of those people to nurse a drink forever.

"No, I didn't meet—" Shiro realizes how odd that must sound, and then realizes he's about to admit the only history he keeps even more private than the accident that ended his flying career. "I don't keep in touch with my family."

A frown flickers across Keith's face. "Sorry, not following you."

"I mean." Shiro settles his elbows on the table. "My family… wasn't good."

Once again, he finds himself talking because Keith is willing to listen. But only Keith; there are other picnic tables within earshot, if he raises his voice. He keeps his voice low.

"I sued for independence at seventeen, and joined the military. I don't know where or how my parents are, and I don't care." He tries to sound matter-of-fact. From Keith's stricken expression, Shiro fails. He smiles, hoping to reassure. "It's not something I think much about, anymore."

"Thought you and Pidge were related." Keith's smile is pained, his tone tentative. "Hunk said something about adoption..."

"I roomed with Pidge's older brother in college. His parents kinda adopted me." Shiro had meant to save the chips as a later snack, but he tears open the bag to give his hands something to do. "Want some?"

Keith takes a single chip, nibbling on it, waiting for the rest of the story.

"Colleen is the kind of Mom other kids had, that I always wanted." Shiro takes a chip, can't eat it, just turns it over in his fingers. "Brilliant scientist, takes no guff, bakes a mean blueberry pie."

Shiro knows his smile must be dopey. He's still not sure what he'd ever done right to finally have two near-parents who want him around, listen, advise, celebrate his victories and send him care packages when things get tough. Or even just care enough to insist he wear a helmet and ride safely.

"My first foster placement was like that," Keith says. "Eighty years old and tough as nails. She was the only one who believed me when I said I had a mom. She tried calling the base for me, but they wouldn't tell her anything. So she ran an ad in the local military base's paper."

"That was smart." Shiro wants to ask what happened, but he reminds himself: patience. To his annoyance, his cell phone chirps, with Allura's ring. "Sorry, hold on." He checks the message, unable to suppress a grin. "Secret's out."

"Work?"

"No, this weekend." Shiro taps back a quick response— _see you in the morning—_ and sets the phone down. "Going home for the weekend. Looks like Mom—I mean, Colleen—invited Allura, too."

"Allura?" Keith scrunches up his face, thinking. "The exec with the curly white hair?"

"The same. We were in the same astronomy program in college."

"You go way back, then." Keith smiles. "That must be nice."

"Only because I have as much dirt on her as she does on me." Shiro laughs and stands up, collecting his trash. "Best secret to long-lasting friendships. We should probably get back to work."

Shiro wishes he had Allura's charm, or Matt's wit. Either of them would be able to think of something to make Keith smile again, maybe even laugh. The most he can manage is slightly dorky biker jokes that make Keith flash that crooked, somewhat confused smile.

Safer to retreat into work-related topics, instead. A professional distance settles between them again, and Shiro reminds himself that this is how it should be.

 

 

 

Three hours later, Shiro pulls up beside Pidge in the parking lot of her apartment building and follows her inside. He'd confiscated her phone and then broke the news. It's not that Pidge can't keep secrets; she just likes to tease Matt—and Shiro—way too much. Shiro taps out a message to Colleen while Pidge leaves a note for her apartment-mates.

"We don't have to rush." Pidge picks up her backpack. "Get there too early, Mom'll make us mow the lawn or something."

Shiro slings an arm around her neck. "I'll take the backyard, you can take the front yard."

"How about neither?" Pidge elbows Shiro, getting free when he bends over, clutching his ribs. "Neither would be great for me. Give me back my phone, now."

"Nope." Shiro drops his spare helmet on her head, while she zips up her jacket. "You've ruined enough surprises, squirt. Not this time."

"I haven't ruined a surprise since I was fourteen." Pidge settles the helmet in place, tipping her chin back for Shiro to adjust the strap and snap it for her.

"That's because we haven't let you." Shiro slings a leg over the bike, hauling it upright.

Pidge climbs on behind him, wriggling until she's leaning back, fingers locked around the seat-strap. Shiro pulls on his gloves, flexing his fingers to stretch the leather.

"Hey, question for you," Pidge says, thoughtful. "What do you think of Keith?"

"Uh—" Too surprised, Shiro ducks his head, tweaking the gloves as though they're not quite right. "The Keith on our team?"

"No, the janitor. Yes, that Keith. What do you think of him?"

"Sharp. Quick learner. Amazing pilot." Shiro pulls the kerchief from his pocket and ties it around his neck.

Years of experience tell him Pidge's stare is burning a hole in the back of his leather jacket. What would he say if she were asking about anyone else? He twists around to give her an amused look, and at the last second recalls his promise to Colleen. No mentioning Lance.

He adjusts his response to a second-best reply. "What made you bring him up?"

"I just can't figure him out, is all." Pidge grimaces. "I thought I knew his deal, then he goes and gets friendly with Ezor." She says _friendly_ in a way that makes Shiro's heart thud hollowly.

"Which one is Ezor?" He pulls the kerchief up over his nose, taking longer than usual to adjust it just so.

"Designer on Thace's team. The one who talks. All the time."

"Pretty sure Keith is old enough to talk to people without supervision." Unlike himself, sometimes. Shiro puts on his helmet and snaps the strap under his chin. "What about it?"

"Just I wouldn't have pegged Ezor for his type. She could be a supermodel, and he's…" Pidge shrugs.

"I'm not sure which of them you're insulting." Shiro digs in his pockets for his keys. His hands are absolutely not shaking. He's fine. Everything's fine. "Are you done?"

"What about Hunk?"

Shiro sighs. "What about him?"

"What do you think of him?"

"I think we can talk about this over a glass of iced tea after we've finished the yardwork."

Shiro starts the engine, drowning out whatever she'd say next to stall their departure. He reaches behind him, patting her knee to check, and she catches him by the waist, squeezing once. Shiro puts the bike in gear and pulls away from the curb.

Friday afternoon means slow-moving traffic heading out of the city. The road deserves his full attention, but he can't shake the bitterness. He'd told Colleen that Keith was only a friend. He's got two hours to convince himself that he's happy to learn he was right.

 

 

 

The list, as of Saturday morning, nine A.M.: lawn's mowed, pie's in the oven, biscuits are rising, Matt's successfully surprised. Allura and Lotor arrive an hour later, bringing potato salad, a Moroccan casserole-like dish, and six bottles of wine. Colleen has the croquet set ready, which means an afternoon of the unique Holt take on the game: Sam referees with random mathematical questions to determine points awarded.

Not entirely random; he always makes Shiro calculate trajectory derivatives. One hard-won B in advanced calculus, Shiro's sophomore year—achieved only with Sam's patient tutoring—and now Shiro's cursed for eternity to remember those calculations, every family get-together. Could be worse; Pidge always gets the geometry questions.

Colleen says nothing of their previous conversation, though she must've told Sam, whose welcoming hug for Shiro is a bit tighter and longer than usual. Shiro does catch Matt and Allura whispering in hushed tones while they're setting the picnic table. They break apart, all smiles. Shiro sets down the three-bean salad—Pidge's speciality—and gives Allura and Matt a flat stare.

Both just smile wider. Shiro rolls his eyes, stalking back to the house. Normally he'd complain to Colleen, but a sudden twinge of paranoia has him wondering whether Colleen said something to Matt, too. That means speaking up will make it obvious how desperately Shiro does care.

"What is it, sweetie?" Colleen holds out the plate of marinated chicken for the barbecue.

Shiro smiles. "Nothing, just glad to be home." He takes the plate, leaning over to accept Colleen's kiss on the cheek. On the other side of the island, Lotor chops mushrooms with lightning-fast efficiency.

"And we're glad to have you." Colleen picks up her glass of wine and leans a hip against the butcher-block island. "I still don't see why all of you can't just live here. The commute's not _that_ bad."

"It's two hours," Shiro says, in unison with Lotor.

"Oh, sure, but then my yard would be amazing, and just think how well I'd eat every night." Colleen helps herself to another deviled egg. "Go on, sweetie, I can see the plumes of black smoke rising from the barbecue. Let Sam get on with burning the main course so Lotor can take over and save the day."

 

 

 

Weekend survived with only a minor sunburn, Shiro's balance somehow holds. It's still a struggle when Ezor pops her head into their team room, just before lunch on Wednesday. Shiro schools his face into a neutral smile, as though he's occupied.

He's not, and—while Keith finishes up an email as Ezor and Lance chat—Shiro also doesn't miss how Pidge's fingers still on her keyboard, despite wearing her headphones. She's listening, closely. Nothing's said that might displease HR, but there's a lot of teasing going on. Lance and Ezor have an easy camaraderie that probably could become flirting with a little alcohol. Even after Ezor leaves with Keith, it takes Pidge a moment to get back into typing.

Shiro considers messaging her. He gets as far as opening a window. Pidge wouldn't appreciate being reminded of what she's trying so hard to ignore. If their roles were reversed, he wouldn't welcome it, either. He closes the chat window.

When Keith returns from lunch, flush from the day's bright sun and quietly bubbling about his new apartment, Shiro follows Pidge's lead. Smile, but not too wide. Be happy, but not too excited. Shiro does his best, but he hasn't had to squash his libido down this much since he was fifteen and hopelessly infatuated with the girl in apartment 3-A.

"How'd you get a place there?" Lance asks, looking at the website Keith had sent.

Shiro's fingers itch to click the link. He still has some self-control. What he doesn't know, he won't think about, and then it won't eat at him. He doesn't need to know.

"One of Ezor's neighbors is moving out, and Ezor basically parked in the office and stalled them until I could fill out the paperwork." Keith's tone borders on cool, but his fingers keep stroking his laptop's keyboard, a restive movement. "I haven't actually seen it yet, but I've seen Ezor's place. The office said the layout's similar."

"This means Keith's hosting our next team party," Lance declares.

For a moment, there's stark fear in Keith's gaze. Shiro drops his eyes, pretending like he didn't see.

Pidge tosses a stack of sticky notes at Lance. "We haven't had a _first_ team party to have a _next_ team party."

"Yeah, and besides, Shiro was the first to join," Hunk adds. "He should host. Keith can do it, after that."

Shiro looks up to find the entire team staring at him. Lance and Hunk look expectant, Pidge is disgruntled, while Keith—no, Shiro doesn't know what Keith's thinking. Only that Keith is preternaturally still. Maybe hoping Shiro will take the pressure off by being the first?

"It might be awhile," Shiro says. "I need to get shelves. I've got a lot of boxes I can't unpack before then."

"How're you gonna get shelves home from a store?" Pidge asks.

"I thought I'd rent a truck." Shiro isn't sure why this is even a topic. "It's going to be a few weeks, probably. I've been pretty busy."

"Lance has a truck," Hunk says. "He can help you get the shelves home."

"Hey!" It's Lance's turn to throw the sticky pad at Hunk. "Don't just go offering my truck services to anyone." The very next instant, Lance checks his phone, and turns one of those hundred-watt grins on Shiro. "I'm free on Saturday from noon to about six. Let me know when you've gotten your shelves, and I'll come haul 'em for you. Hunk can help you carry the shelves up the stairs."

"Yeah," Hunk says. "Wait, hold on."

Pidge ignores Hunk's sputtering. "Keith, when are you moving in?"

"Week from tomorrow," Keith says, brows wrinkling. "Why?"

"Means you'll be free." Pidge nods as if it's all settled. "There you go, Shiro. While Hunk and Lance put the shelves together, Keith can help you unpack the books and put them away."

"Now who's offering everyone else's time," Lance grumbles. "Why am I being stuck helping carry the shelves? I'm much better at alphabetizing."

"You're helping with the shelves because you volunteered me to carry them up—" Hunk pauses, giving Shiro a suspicious look. "What floor do you live on?"

"Third," Shiro says.

Hunk groans. "I hate you and your big mouth sometimes, Lance."

"I'm doing the driving," Lance replies, as though that's a tremendous sacrifice already. "Hey, we don't have a chore for Pidge to do."

"I'm bringing food." Pidge has been jotting down notes on stickies and slapping them on the table. "Any dietary restrictions? Lance, no dairy, right. Keith?"

"Uh, no." Keith gives Shiro an uncertain look.

Shiro smiles, ruefully aware there's no point in protesting when it's a Holt making the call. Shiro sets a reminder on his phone to pick up cleaning supplies. He'll spend the next two evenings cleaning. At least it means he wasn't lying when he said he's busy.

"Oh!" Lance bolts upright, and his grin looks like a threat. "If this is a social event, does that mean we can bring someone?"

"Depends," Pidge says, on Shiro's behalf. "Who'd you have in mind?"

"I was asking for Hunk," Lance says. "I never get to hang out with Shay."

"Shay?" Shiro asks.

"My girlfriend." Hunk's smile is suddenly boyish.

"High school sweethearts," Lance says. "They're so cute it'll rot your teeth. Pidge, what about you?"

"Uh." Pidge scribbles another note. It looks like doodles from where Shiro sits, across the table. "Why is it always dates? Maybe I'll bring one of my apartment-mates."

"Bring Teosh," Lance says. "She has the best stories."

"She might be out of town, but I can ask." Pidge gives Keith a once-over. "You should bring Ezor."

Shiro tenses at the peculiar edge in Pidge's voice. She has to know, somehow, but he doesn't need her going into attack-mode over it. Especially when Keith hasn't done anything to deserve that.

"I don't—" Keith breaks off with a quick glance at Shiro. "I can ask." Puzzled, tentative. Perhaps he's not speaking of Ezor, but to Shiro.

They've talked enough that Shiro knows Keith's considerate like that, but it's a trait Shiro especially values and respects. Truth is, Shiro would love to say no, but better to get it over with. He'll end up truly moved in, he can take Sunday to recover, and he'll only have to put up with people in his space for an afternoon.

"That's fine." Shiro smiles, flattered and warmed by the knowledge Keith cares whether Shiro's comfortable with the idea.

Except the joy slides right off Keith's face, and he nods with a line between his brows. He busies himself typing, so the frown must be him concentrating as he sends a message to Ezor. Shiro lowers his own head, relieved the topic is over and he can get back to work.

"What about you?" Lance asks, looked pointedly at Shiro. "You're seeing someone. Have them come, too."

"I—" Shiro's mind goes blank, and comes back online too slowly. "Uh. I don't know."

"I just want to state for the record that it's not fair that we have to bring someone, and you don't," Lance says.

"What does _have to_ have to do with anything?" Hunk looks disgusted. "If being with someone is an obligation, maybe you need to stop being with them."

Even Keith looks surprised at Hunk's bluntness. Pidge watches Shiro, too closely. He refuses to look her way. Lance frowns, then waves off Hunk's response, still focused on Shiro.

"Just saying that you don't have to be shy. Besides, more hands make the work go faster." Lance grins. "On second thought, tell your significant other to stay home. That way the rest of us don't look like losers in comparison."

"Why would—" Shiro breaks off, catching on too late.

He waves a hand at Lance, as though annoyed, and Lance laughs. Shiro gets the sideways compliment, though he wants to protest that he doesn't actually date all that often. When he had money for the bar scene, he had no time. After the accident, he had the time, but no money and even less energy.

He puts it out of mind.

 

 

 

Shiro buries himself in emails and meetings, for once not bothering to evade the engineers most likely to snag him into joining their meetings, as well. He keeps it up through Thursday, and most of Friday.

It's easier than addressing the puzzling question of who his own team thinks he is.

As an officer in the military, people saw his haircut, his posture, and his rank. Rapid promotions meant attention, and that meant public speaking; there's little he hates more, though it got easier once his CO pointed out people only saw his uniform. As a student, he was just another face in the crowd; as a professor, the students only saw Professor Shirogane, surname butchered on a regular basis. One more face at the front of the class, already old, too boring. The only people who knew him—that he'd ever _let_ know him—were the Holts and Allura, and eventually, Lotor.

And now he spends his days surrounded by people curious about him, as an individual. Three months and that interest hasn't died down, despite his constant hope otherwise. He's not sure how to put up walls against that, and not sure what would happen if he stopped trying.

He does know he needs to stop blurting out intensely private stuff to Keith, though. Once was excusable, necessary to put them on the same page after a bad start. One thought of eating alone with Keith, or being in the team room when it's only the two of them... Shiro's heart pounds, and then he starts talking and can't seem to stop. He wants to kick himself every time. 

He's made it to Friday afternoon, another week done, but he can't relax. Tomorrow the team will be in his private space, moving through rooms he's only occupied alone, and Keith's going to be among them. Unless Keith has a change of plans, and Shiro's not sure what he'll do, then. Call it off? That would be too obvious, but he can't muster even a fraction of the enthusiasm if Keith's not there.

Shiro closes his laptop as the meeting ends, aware he's only heard half the discussion. Another hour and perhaps he can slip out without raising any eyebrows. He walks the hall, paying little mind to the people swirling around him, when a gruff voice calls his name. Shiro looks up, knowing there's no point to pretending he was anything but lost in his own thoughts.

"Sir," he says.

Kolivan studies Shiro for a long moment. Instinctively Shiro straightens his shoulders, old habits coming back to put him at attention.

"Come with me," Kolivan finally says. "We need to talk."


	6. Chapter 6

Shiro follows Kolivan—not to Kolivan's office, but to the elevator. Others join them, discussing weekend plans or complaining about their last meeting for the day, while Shiro attempts to politely ignore the conversations. At the ground floor, Kolivan leads the way to the green space between the buildings. Paved walkways curved between mulched beds and ornamental trees.

Kolivan walks with his hands clasped at the small of his back. A casual stroll, head down, brows lowered in thought. Shiro keeps pace, one hand on his laptop case, the other clenched at his side rather than clutching his stomach.

"At ease, soldier," Kolivan murmurs, then sighs. "Old habit. No offense meant."

"None taken, sir."

"This conversation is between us, as a private matter. I have no intention of involving HR. My purpose is to make sure you're aware of circumstances."

"Understood, sir."

"You can drop the sir, Shiro."

Shiro can't quite manage a smile. "Old habit. Sorry, sir." He winces.

They've taken a side-path through the courtyard, one out of the way of the foot traffic heading to the parking garage. Kolivan gestures to a park bench along the path, and the two men sit.

"To start..." Kolivan clears his throat, hands clasped between his knees. He seems almost abashed. "What's your opinion of Keith Kogane?"

Shiro takes his time setting his laptop case by his feet, leaning against his shin. "Sharp. A quick learner. Quiet, but an indispensable part of the team." He keeps his tone steady, distanced. Safest mode when talking to a CO. "A rare natural talent for flying."

Kolivan nods, gestures with one hand, inviting more.

"He's told me he plans to take classes," Shiro says. "I understand his reasons for deciding against the military, but truth is… a part of me regrets never getting to see what he could do in a fighter."

"The first thing the military would do is beat the free spirit out of him, and the source of Keith's skill _is_ that free spirit." Kolivan shakes his head. "I was relieved when he told me his decision."

"I think he'll do well in school," Shiro offers. He's still not sure what this conversation is about; best tactic is to stay diplomatically noncommittal until he knows more.

"I understand you're also aware of the family connection," Kolivan says, brows coming down in obvious discomfort. "It's… I have personal reasons to see him do well, and I think he will, with the right encouragement."

"I've had no complaints, from myself or anyone else." Shiro's not sure whether he's defending or placating.

"I'll level with you." Kolivan leans back, gaze fixed on the tree-shaded flower beds, where a mockingbird taps at the mulch for bugs. "Keith's been staying with me for almost two months. He'd been commuting from his previous apartment while he saved up for a deposit. Over an hour each way. His mother called me, and since my townhouse has a basement suite we're not using, it was the best solution I could see."

At that, Shiro does chuckle. "I can't see Keith agreeing easily."

"There might've been debate," Kolivan admits, a smile cracking his stern demeanor. "It's not technically nepotism, but I don't want to be seen as unfair. I've transferred Keith to Hira's division, at least on paper. Iverson will do Keith's review, with your input, but Hira will approve."

"I see." Shiro scratches his head, uncomfortable. "I don't mean to be rude, but…"

"That should explain to you how I know what I'm about to say. I did my twenty and got out, and now I've done twenty as a civilian. We never had kids, so it's been a new experience. Truth is, I was willing to consider Keith's offer to pay rent, but my husband refused." Kolivan's smile is almost abashed, and undeniably fond. "Keith took over KP, instead. Now we three sit down to dinner every evening, and somehow… it seems natural to discuss our days."

Shiro nods, as his gut knots further. Keith must've said something, and Kolivan's personal interest has led him to intervene. Shiro racks his brain. Had he spoken too harshly? Misjudged his tone? It must be work-related, or Kolivan wouldn't intrude.

"It's come to my attention that Keith—" Kolivan clears his throat. "Is, in a word, infatuated."

"Ah." Shiro nods, trying to appear unsurprised rather than quietly hurt. "I know he's seeing someone, but it hasn't affected his work, if that's what you're asking."

Kolivan comes nearly upright at that. "Seeing someone?"

"I discourage too much personal discussion at work, but I get the impression it's casual."

Kolivan's mouth falls open, astonished.

"One of the designers," Shiro says, instinctively leaning away. "Sir? Did I say something wrong?"

"He's made friends, true. But his only topic of conversation is _you_ , Shiro."

Shiro's brain shuts down, for a long moment. His heart thuds dully. Keith _talks_ about him—but what does that mean? Is Kolivan's observation accurate, or is Shiro hearing only what he wishes were true? Years of self-discipline kick in. Of course Keith wants a friendship, but it couldn't be more than Keith's sought with the rest of the team. Shiro schools his expression into something more professional. He clears his throat, unable to figure out the least suspicious response.

"As I'm sure you're also realizing, there's a culture shock involved in joining a company this large," Kolivan says, returning his gaze to the flowers. "I believe Keith has potential to go far, but I prefer to keep a closer eye during these early stages. I find the hands-on investment is worth it, in the long run."

"Absolutely," Shiro chokes out, scrambling to keep up. A level tone, a neutral expression; it got him through his doctoral defense. This is no less important. "I wasn't—I mean—I wouldn't—" He gives up. "I don't know what to say."

Kolivan snorts. "To be blunt, I wasn't expecting you to be caught off-guard."

"Pardon?" Shiro asks, baffled.

"With your looks?"

"My what?" Shiro's startled into a near-laugh. His hand goes up to his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose, a self-conscious habit he thought he'd broken years ago. Kolivan can't possibly be suggesting what it sounds like. "That's—no—" Shiro forces his hands into his lap, covering his prosthesis with his flesh hand. "I mean, there's no need to—I'm—no."

When Shiro tries to imagine what others must see, the image in his head is always his first military ID. A scrawny kid with an hour-old buzz cut and jug-handle ears, burning with the desperate knowledge that he had no fallback if he failed. Fifteen years since, and now his scars are on the outside. He's never been a catch. Abruptly, Shiro realizes what Kolivan must be getting at. It hurts, but it won't be the first time Shiro's faced bitter truths. He should be used to it, by now, with all the mistakes in his past.

"Do I—Should I speak with Iverson about switching to another team?" Somehow he forces out the rest of the words. "Speaking honestly, sir."

"Honestly?" Kolivan settles back, hands clasped at his waist, thumbs circling each other, an idle gesture. "I'd rather you not, but it's your choice."

It would either solve everything, or destroy everything. Transferred to a different team, he'd be free to reciprocate, to express his own interest. But there's equally a chance that Kolivan is mistaken, and Shiro would have transferred for no reason.

"In my opinion, though, I think you'd benefit from learning how to handle a situation like this," Kolivan says. "I also believe you have too much integrity to take the easy way out."

Shiro frowns, seeing the rebuke.

"Interpersonal relationships are the hardest part of managing people. Sometimes, a team won't get along for reasons equally inexplicable and unpredictable. I believe you have potential to be a leader, Shiro. For that to happen, though, I need you to be aware of the impact you have on your younger peers, and adjust accordingly."

"Understood, sir." A corner of Shiro's brain keeps circling back to that fragile hope: _could_ Keith like him? He takes a steadying breath, afraid he'll blurt out everything spinning through his head. "I suppose Keith's mentioned the team's getting together tomorrow to—" Shiro searches for an innocuous way to describe it. "Help me move some shelves. Given what you've said, should I cancel that?"

Too late he realizes his mistake. If it were anyone else, how would he react? Would he even be worried? Perhaps he should simply promise to watch himself, and keep an eye on the situation. He doesn't want to cancel. He's cleaned everything, twice, even organized his boxes for the easiest unpacking. He'd rather not impose on the team's good will, but he wants to make a good impression. He wants to impress _Keith_ , with an eagerness that feels pathetic in the cold light of a corporate setting.

"I think socializing as a group can be a good team-building venture. A number of teams go for happy hour at the end of a sprint," Kolivan says. "If you establish a regular schedule, it reduces any emphasis on this as a special event. It also gives the team something to look forward to. This isn't the military, Shiro. We have saner ways of blowing off steam."

Shiro forces a chuckle. "Duly noted, sir. No strip bars, no gambling."

"And no drag racing." Kolivan grins. "I know four of you are bikers. I don't want to be scraping any of you off the tarmac."

"Agreed, sir."

"Take some time and think about it, Shiro. Sometimes these things happen when people work side-by-side. I'll continue to mentor Keith, but I'm available for you, too."

"I appreciate that, sir." Old lessons surface, giving him a template of what to say. "I'll give it some thought, and come up with a plan. Can we meet next week and review?"

"Find a slot on my calendar that works for you." Kolivan stands.

"I'll do that." Shiro picks up his laptop case in his right hand, the only thing keeping him from snapping a salute. "I'm sorry about this, and I'll do my best to resolve it in a satisfactory manner."

"I expected as much." Kolivan smiles, and checks his phone. "It appears the shopping for tonight's meal has fallen to me." He tucks the phone away. "I know it's awkward, Shiro, but this doesn't have to be a disaster. It may take time and a little work, but in the end, you're someone Keith would be lucky to count as a friend."

Shiro tries to see that as the compliment it's meant to be. He looks Kolivan in the eyes, his work expression screwed on tight. "I'm flattered you'd say so, and I'll do my best."

Kolivan seems satisfied with the lie.

 

 

 

Shiro picks up his stuff from the team's room, glad no one else is around. By the time he gets to his bike, the spaces on either side are empty. He makes it home without steering himself right off the road from his stomach flipping one way, then the other.

He paces, trying to see his apartment through a stranger's eyes.

Usually his shoes are all piled by the door, since he prefers being barefoot inside. He's put his shoes away, but now the space lacks even that much personality. Nothing on his walls. A gray sofa and two side chairs, which he knows are acceptable because Allura picked them out. A simple coffee table, a kitchen table with four chairs. Standing lamps, one at each end of the sofa, their cords snaking across the bare hardwood floors.

It could be a furnished rental if not for the fifteen boxes stacked along one end of the living room. Boring, sterile, strict, just like so many almost-lovers have accused him of being. Too private about his past, too straitlaced. The only time he's ever splurged on himself was his used Harley, but he can hardly park it in his living room as defense against the echoes.

He should clean, one more time. He's not sure what's left. Shiro opens the cabinet under the sink, reaching for the supplies. He ends cross-legged on the floor, holding a bottle of window cleaner, lost in daydreams.

He'll transfer to Thace's team—Thace has made it clear he'd like Shiro to do so—and with Keith in a completely different chain of command, there's hope. Finally, to like someone, be liked in return, and no obstacles. The very notion sends his heart pounding so fast the bottle shakes in his hands.

It's time to do the only thing he's ever done, the rare times things get like this: call Allura.

Shiro leaves the pile across the kitchen floor and perches on the sofa arm, waiting anxiously as the phone rings. It answers on the third ring.

"Allura's phone," Lotor says.

"Is Allura busy?" Shiro wishes for an old-fashioned corded phone, so he'd have something to twist through his fingers.

"Yes and no. Busy being not-busy." Glasses clink in the background, running water. "She's spent two days in meetings, getting ready for the fall plan pitches. Now she's soaking in the tub surrounded by bubbles. Just delivered a glass of her favorite Sémillon."

"Are you saying I should call back later?"

"Depends. You sound like something's on your mind. You okay with running it past me, instead? I can go borrow a neighbor's curling iron if that helps you pretend I'm Allura."

Shiro laughs, which he's sure was the intent of Lotor's dry-toned offer. "No, I'm fine. It's… how did you know you needed to transfer to another team?"

"Transfer—oh. Right." Lotor finishes whatever he's doing; the background sounds stop. "I'd been working for Allura for about a month, and our one-on-ones were… never as productive as they should've been. I finally said something about finding it difficult, because I'd always preferred to have distance in a working relationship. And instead I was starting to consider her... a good friend."

"That was all?"

"It was pretty obvious to both of us what I was referring to. You know the rest of the story, anyway. What's got you thinking about that?"

"I—" Shiro steels himself. "I want to transfer off my current team."

"I take it there's someone you like."

Shiro can't quite answer. Some truths are too fragile to be said aloud.

"Are your feelings reciprocated?" Lotor prompts.

"I believe so." Shiro sighs and recounts his discussion with Kolivan.

"Sounds terribly awkward."

"It was, but if Keith—" Shiro scrubs at his hair, uncertain. "I can't seem to stop thinking about him."

"I can't say whether Kolivan's perspective is right or wrong, but I'm not hearing anyone consider the alternate explanation." Lotor pauses, but Shiro has nothing to say. Lotor sighs. "Hero worship, Shiro."

"What?" Shiro grins. "Be serious."

"I am. This is the same person you argued with in the parking lot, right? I heard his opening volley was your military record—"

"Wait, I did _not_ argue with anyone in the parking lot." Shiro is mortified at the very thought. "We might've been tense, but there were no raised—hold on, how do you know about that?"

"Allura told me."

"But how does Allura know?"

"I think Matt told her."

Shiro clutches his head with a groan. "That was a _private_ conversation! Did Mom tell everyone?"

"I believe Pidge is still ignorant, but I can email her if you think it's best not to leave her out." Lotor laughs at Shiro's strangled protest. "Seriously, Shiro. The reason is crucial, here. It's a crapshoot with infatuation. Familiarity can either destroy it or deepen it. But hero worship never survives contact. As soon as Keith sees you put your pants on one leg at a time just like everyone else, that worship will fade."

That's the opposite of what Shiro wants. Not that he wants anyone worshipping him—never mind that he can't think of any rational reason why—but he'd like to believe he's not the only one flailing in waters too far over his head.

"I can't say without watching you interact," Lotor adds. "But I wouldn't be surprised if it's hero worship. This is the aerobatics pilot, right? A fighter pilot with your record—"

" _Former_ fighter pilot."

"Fine, have it your way. There's something else you don't know, though." Lotor sighs, like he's settling down for the real heart of the conversation. "I know Allura would hold back on telling you this, but I hope you'll understand why I'm not."

Shiro braces himself. "What am I missing?"

"There's a lot more riding on this project than you realize. Allura spent months arguing behind the scenes for a team to tackle this bid. The downstream ramifications are immense. Not just for drone use in space exploration, but the data your team's collecting from those hours of piloting—that has a value far beyond this single project."

"Yes, I'm—" Shiro halts, seeing the one detail. "Allura said she just helped the team get funding."

"If she'd told you how much she'd fought for this project, you would've backpedaled so fast there'd be a Shiro-shaped hole in the wall. You know she'd never put that pressure on you, not like that. But this is her _chance_ , Shiro. She put herself on the line, and you're a crucial piece of the puzzle."

"I'm not the only one who knows dynamic aeroelasticity."

"You're the only one Allura knows for certain won't screw her over."

"She's not managing the team," Shiro protests. "It's not even in her division."

"That's exactly why it's so important the project succeed. For her to move to the next level, she has to demonstrate her leadership extends beyond her immediate control. If this project falters because the team fell apart, it's going to reflect on Allura. She brought you in because she trusted you to see it through to the end. She's worked so hard to get to where she is, and at this level, the table stakes are huge."

"And if I transfer," Shiro says, slowly. "It'll be taken as a sign that I don't think the project is viable?"

"I'm afraid so. At the team's level, less-than-stellar success—so to speak—will result in a less enthusiastic year-end review, at most. But the backlash on Allura will be tremendous. She's the one who argued so hard for the company to take this leap. I know you want her to succeed as much as I do, which is the reason I argued for her to bring you on."

" _You_ did?" Shiro rubs his forehead. He had been puzzled that Allura would've required his expertise so unexpectedly. He'd been flattered; perhaps he should've instead been asking why she'd never tried, before.

"She didn't want working together to damage your friendship, but the position was practically tailor-made for your expertise. And just as importantly, if there's anyone on this planet who could match me for putting Allura first, it'd be you."

"Don't put those words out into the universe. Her Uncle Coran's probably already packing to come throw down the gauntlet on who loves her best."

"I'll send him an email talking him down, just in case." Lotor laughs, then sobers. "The rest of your team is skilled, but you're the linchpin. If it's infatuation, it won't last another month, anyway."

Shiro's not sure _he'll_ last another month. Maybe Keith's just someone who talks about his current focus, not realizing the impression he gives. Maybe it's just Shiro who sees more, who _wants_ more, despite having so little to offer.

"I am sorry," Lotor says. "I know how hard it is for you to put yourself out there. I'm just saying there's more going on, so look twice before you leap—but at the time, don't shut yourself off again. Besides, Allura would blame me if she found out, and I don't like sleeping in the garage."

Shiro smiles, wry. "She wouldn't blame you. Kolivan said basically the same thing." Be the adult, remember the bigger picture. It's all Kolivan's asked, from the start; it's what Lotor's asking for, now. "Thinking about it, you're probably right that it's hero worship, anyway. As strange as that is to say."

"Only to you."

Shiro snorts, despite Lotor's serious tone. "Thanks for listening. I'll do my best to not let Allura down."

"Thank you. She needs this win. And I think you do, too."

Shiro shrugs off the peculiar comment and says his goodbyes, though he stalls on meeting Lotor and Allura for lunch. Maybe next week, he says, and hangs up.

He'll need Sunday to recover from having people in his space for several hours on Saturday, after all. He wanders the apartment, an informal inspection, and finds nothing he hasn't already cleaned twice. He's too restless to read. A long run, then.

It's two miles to the city park, which has become his favorite destination. He can get water from the fountain, walk a bit, then stretch and take the two miles back at a faster pace. The skies are clear, with a light breeze; the evening should be beautiful. Shiro stretches on the front steps of his apartment building. The sidewalks are clearing, foot traffic subsiding as the nearest subway station's rush hour ends.

Shiro's loping stride eats the distance at a comfortable speed. He needs time to think, to process. If there's anything to worship, it's the years of effort he's put into cultivating a facade. It'd been a matter of survival, for so long, such that barracks life was simply more of the same. Always ready for inspection, always reviewing a mental checklist, not allowing a single hair nor imperfect bedsheet to signal the presence of a personality with all its messy flaws.

Matt still teases Shiro over the label Allura had bestowed: minimalist. Shiro had adopted the word, preferring it over the truth: empty.

Shiro shoves the maudlin thoughts from his head. By this time tomorrow, he'll have bookshelves, filled with books. Textbooks, mostly, but perhaps that'll be enough to make his private space seem complete in a way he's never managed by himself.

 

 

 

By eleven the next morning, Shiro's found the cabinetry place Hunk had recommended. He chooses shelves in a coppery-red stain. With the salesperson's help, Shiro calculates the running feet of his books. Six bookshelves should suffice. While the salesperson writes up the bill, Shiro watches the small parking lot out front. Lance's blue truck is backed into a space out front, ready to be loaded. Lance had popped his head in, waved, and gone to sit on his truck's tailgate, enjoying the morning sun.

Shiro's amused to see Lance bolt upright and leap down, digging out his phone. Lance dashes to the truck's side mirror, where in rapid succession he straightens his shirt, finger-combs his hair, and clears his throat. Finally he answers the phone, leaning with a casual grace against the truck, facing the street. Ten minutes later, Shiro steps outside to find Lance done with his call and standing in the truck bed, laying down a beat-up blanket. The store's crew loads the shelves onto Lance's truck, and Lance hops down with a grin.

"These are much fancier than I expected," Lance says. "I was figuring Ikea. Y'know, serviceable and cheap."

"I've done that before," Shiro says, slinging a leg over his bike. "It's why I need new shelves." He ties his bandana around his neck. "I have to ask—who's worth that much production just to answer a phone call?"

Lance turns beet red, all the way to his ear tips. "Uh. What production?" He waves off Shiro's raised brows with a too-nervous laugh. "Just Ka—Pidge—calling for any last-minute additions to the grocery list. She's at the store right now."

"Does that mean she's buying so much she can't fit it on her bike?" Shiro puts on his helmet, snapping the strap under his chin.

"She said Teosh is giving her a ride." Lance runs a hand over his face, humor gone. "Is it that obvious how much I'm crushing on her? It is, isn't it. Damn it."

"Not really." Shiro pulls the bandana up over his nose. "I've never seen any indication at work, if that's what you're worried about." He'd noticed because he'd been looking, but since most people wouldn't be, Shiro figures his observations don't count.

"Oh, good." Lance's grin is lopsided. "I don't want to make the team feel weird, and I really don't want to make Pidge feel awkward. I like too much how well we work together. If nothing comes of it, that's fine. I'll still have months of working with someone who makes me look forward to getting up in the morning."

Shiro fiddles with his keys, stalling to give himself an excuse to ask. "Current timeline is we'll end around November. A lot can change in four months."

A frown flashes over Lance's face. "What, like there's an expiration date on liking someone?"

That gives Shiro pause. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Good." Lance's sunny grin is back, full-force. "I like Pidge. Being her friend is already awesome. Being her boyfriend would be awesome in a different way. I'm willing to wait and find out which kind it'll be. Que será, será, dude."

The drive to Shiro's apartment is ten minutes at most. Barely time to do more than tuck Lance's words away. Shiro pulls his bike into the back alley where the storage garages are, doing the careful turn-around so he can walk the bike backwards into the narrow space. He pulls the gate down, locks it, and opens the chain-link gate into the storage area.

By the time he reaches the building's front doors, Pidge is there as well, hands full with a dozen loaded grocery bags. Hunk strolls up a minute later, talking on his phone, a large cooler perched on one shoulder.

"Keith's on his way," Hunk says. "Sign says we only have fifteen minutes for unloading, Lance."

Lance hauls himself up into the trunk's bed. "Then we move fast. Pull the tailgate down and grab an end."

Shiro takes half the grocery bags, taking one handle of the cooler. Pidge takes the other handle and somehow they haul everything up the broad wooden steps that form the center of the building. Shiro shoves his door open with his hip and gives her the basic layout.

"Bathroom's on the right, here, and closet's on the left. Leave my bedroom alone, Katie."

Pidge grins, then yelps as Shiro yanks the cooler, dragging her away from thoughts of short-sheeting his bed again. He sets the groceries on the kitchen island and gestures over his shoulder. "Dining room, living room. Come on, we can't make Hunk and Lance do all the work."

It takes a half-hour to unload the shelves with the four of them. Lance hustles off to find a place to park his truck, while Hunk opens the groceries with running commentary. Shiro and Pidge debate putting the shelves in the second bedroom. Shiro's been thinking it'd be his study, but Pidge insists Shiro should host Colleen and Sam for the holidays. She wins: the second room will become a guest room, and the long wall from kitchen to window gets selected as the library wall.

"We could put four here, and the last two at the opposite end," Shiro suggests, for the third time.

Pidge isn't budging. "Nope, that wall stays like it is. Move those boxes over and I'll start putting them away."

Lance arrives with Keith, each with a brown-paper-wrapped board under their arms. Before Shiro can say anything, Pidge scoots off to inform them of the no-shoe policy, and the two appear around the corner with bare feet and their hands out, presenting what must be pictures.

"Housewarming gifts," Lance says.

"Sorry I'm late," Keith explains. "Couldn't bring these on the bike. Had to get a ride."

Shiro nods, dumbfounded. No one had said anything about gifts. He's not sure what to do. Before he can thank them and take the wrapped pictures into his room, Pidge is in the way, tearing off the paper on his behalf. He sighs. She's been doing that since the first time they met.

"Relax." Pidge elbows him. "Mom and Allura picked these out. We just got 'em framed. Something good and plain."

"Minimalist," Hunk yells from the kitchen area. "Beer and cider's in the cooler, you guys."

The pictures are a diptych of a wooded area, with a small creek threading between the trees. Black-and-white, but little details are the clues. One taken in spring, the other in autumn. The crisp details, the rich contrast, the imprint of the large-format film along the edges. There's no mistaking Shiro's favorite landscape photographer.

"Brought hammer and nails, too," Keith says. Before Shiro can manage a response, Keith and Lance are hanging the pictures according to Pidge's instructions.

"They're reprints of—" Shiro shakes his head. "How did they know?"

Pidge tugs him down to whisper in his ear. "There's one book from Dad's study that ends up in your room, every time you're home. Did you really think the folks wouldn't notice?"

Shiro thanks the team, glad when Lance changes the topic by pointing out there are books waiting to be shelved. Pidge and Keith do most of the work, with Shiro pushing the boxes over; Lance does the cooking, with Hunk doing prep. Whatever it is, it smells great, far better than Shiro's limited skills.

"Isn't there a system?" Keith asks, as he starts filling the top of the second shelf. "Like, by topic, or author's name?"

"Uh," Shiro says. "By height. Mostly."

"Height." Keith looks unimpressed. "How do you find anything?"

"There's not that many. When I finished my doctorate, I got rid of about half my books, anyway. I only kept my—" Shiro looks around to see everyone staring at him.

Except Pidge, who's grinning as she hauls out another stack of books from the nearest box.

"What?" Shiro asks.

"This is _half_?" Lance nearly yelps the words. "Thank heavens you talked me out of a doctorate, Hunk. Master's was bad enough."

Shiro is happy to let Lance and Hunk take over keeping the conversation going, just as they do at work. Pidge litters the conversation with her snark, while Keith offers a few words, when Lance prods him directly. Shiro says almost nothing, too focused on Keith standing right beside him. Or the way at least twice he's reached for more books and his hand's landed on Keith's hand instead.

"Sorry," Keith says, for the third time. "Go ahead."

"No, my mistake." Shiro watches a bead of sweat drip down Keith's temple rather than look Keith in the eyes. "I can pull from this box, instead."

"Right." Keith's smile falters, somehow. It's around the eyes, or maybe the way his mouth tightens. "Because they're all organized by height."

"Yeah." Shiro looks away, busies himself putting away books he'll reorganize later, anyway.

Shiro lets himself get lost in the eddies of Hunk's and Lance's chatter. They lay out the spread across the coffee table and join the three along the wall, making quick work of putting the final boxes away. Shiro makes room for Hunk and Lance to stand between Shiro and Keith—and hates himself for moving so far away.

Chore finished, Hunk makes sure every person has a drink, and leads the cheers. Bottles and cans knocked together, the team sits to eat. Keith sits on one end of the sofa, Pidge takes the middle, looking to Shiro. Distance seems to be his only choice, and he chooses the chair at the opposite end from Keith. Lance claims the spot beside Pidge, flashing a quick grin at Shiro that for a moment looks thankful.

Pidge has card decks in her bag, and once the feeding frenzy dies down enough to clear half the coffee table, she deals, explaining the rules. Lance cheats outrageously; Hunk mulls his cards with a thoughtful look. Pidge keeps her tucked under her chin, grinning like she's up to no good. It's Keith who somehow seems to consistently set down the winning card with no warning.

At just shy of six, Keith's phone beeps. He checks the screen, then tucks his phone into his back pocket. "My ride should be here in about a half-hour," he says.

That's the cue for carrying everything to the kitchen. Shiro refuses to let anyone clean, not after the work they did. Lance offers Pidge a ride, and Hunk looks ready to ask as well. At the last minute he picks up the empty cooler.

"Actually, I don't mind the walk. It's only like four blocks, anyway," Hunk says.

"Next time you should bring Shay," Lance says.

"She's still at that dig in the mountains." Hunk hefts the cooler. "Thanks for hosting us, Shiro. You've got a great place, here. Next time's Keith's turn, though."

"About that," Shiro says. "I mean, about us getting together as a team. I was thinking maybe we should make it a regular thing. Team-building. We could, uh, go for drinks at the end of a sprint? Do a happy hour?"

"Sounds great," Lance says. "I know all the good places."

"And I know the rest," Pidge adds. "Okay, I think I've got everything."

Shiro ends up next to Keith, as Keith sits down to pull on his boots.

"How far away are you staying," Shiro says, ready to lead into offering Keith a ride home, instead. Then he thinks of Keith behind him, on the bike, arms wrapped around Shiro's waist and his chin on Shiro's shoulder. Shiro's brain abruptly freezes, reroutes his words. "I, uh, hope it wasn't too much of an imposition. To bring the pictures, I mean."

"Nope," Keith says, with a quick smile. "Lance volunteered me to pick them up from the framing store, anyway."

Shiro sees everyone out with another round of thanks, and closes the door behind them with a sigh. His place feels so empty, now. He leans against the door, forehead pressed to the cool wood and imagines himself being as easy-going as Lance about it. Offering Keith a ride on his bike and thinking nothing of it. He wishes he could figure out how Keith got under his skin so fast, but Shiro's not sure he'd want to excise Keith, if he even knew how.

The next four months are going to break him.

 

 

 

Twilight falls slowly across the apartment, the sun's last beams turning from amber to gray. Shiro finishes off his third beer, and turns on one of the lamps and wanders into the kitchen to regard the mess left behind. His footsteps are mostly steady, and after a moment's contemplation, he opens a fourth beer anyway. It's unusual for him, but it's not like anyone else is around to notice. Or care.

Nothing else to do, after all, though he should call Mom—and then Allura—and thank them for the artwork. Maybe later. One thing at a time, distract himself from the hollow feeling in his gut. He changes out of his jeans into his oldest pair of loose sweatpants, and pulls on his favorite old t-shirt. It's shrunk over the years, its logo faded, but it was a gift from Matt, first Christmas after the crash. A comfort thing. Shiro drains the beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, impressed again at Pidge's choice in small brewery ales.

First the leftovers, then load the dishwasher. An hour of semi-distracted work, with long pauses to adjust the living room lamp to spotlight the photographs. Finally time for the pans; Shiro plugs the sink and runs the hot water. The sink's in the island, which means he can lean a hip against the countertop, sip his fifth beer, and admire the artwork from across the large open room.

His doorbell rings, startling him. Shiro shuts off the water and heads to his door. Somehow he hits the intercom button on the first try.

"Hello," he says.

"Hey," Keith says, between gulps of air. "Lost my phone. Hoping maybe I left it here."

Shiro doesn't think twice. "Not sure, but you're welcome to look. Door's unlocked, so come on in."

He buzzes Keith in, heading back to the kitchen as he rolls up his sleeves. He's plunging his hands into the hot soapy water right as the door flies open. Keith appears around the corner, then just as fast disappears with a muffled apology. One thump, then another. His boots, dropped by the door.

"Sorry," Keith says. "I know I had my phone when we were playing cards…"

Shiro jerks his head at the sofa. "It probably slipped out of your pocket."

Keith's wearing jeans and a tank top; Shiro hopes Keith didn't ride over without a jacket. The worry blows right out of his head the instant Keith leans over the back of the sofa and pushes the cushions forward to check. Keith's tank top is low under the arms, loose enough to fall forward, giving Shiro glimpses of Keith's chest. Smooth and softly golden skin, with a hint of muscular definition. Not someone who lifts, but active. A cyclist, a swimmer, something that would suit Keith's lean build and long legs—another thing Shiro is trying and failing to ignore, especially in those jeans.

Shiro squeezes the scrubby tight between his fingers. This is _exactly_ what he'd spent all day avoiding, and now he's alone with it. With Keith. With his own desires clawing at his insides.

Keith moves around the sofa to check the seat cushions. Every step, every move, is seared into Shiro's mind, certain to tease at his self-control for days. No one else present to distract, to intrude, to give Shiro cover. Only the island cabinets, and Shiro curses his decision to change out of his jeans. His sweatpants are too loose.

Keith straightens up. "I can't find it."

"Oh, uhm—" Shiro considers rinsing his hands, but walking around the island would make his state of mind too clear. He settles for pointing one sudsy hand at his own phone, lying on the kitchen table. "Use that, and call your own number."

Keith's laugh is soft and delighted. "Should've done that first."

It's not the same OS as his phone, so there's some discussion of how to call a number. Keith gets it working, and a second later, there's birdsong coming from the direction of the sofa. It goes to voicemail too fast. It takes twice more before Keith discovers his phone's under the sofa. He pops back up with a phone in each hand, expression victorious.

"Excellent," Shiro says, a bit hoarsely.

He needs Keith to leave, so he can lean against the countertop and get himself under control. He wants Keith to stay, even if that would be the worst possible thing. He wants out of this predicament, and he has no idea why he can't seem to rein himself in like he has so many times before. Shiro eyes the empty bottles on the countertop, waiting their deposit in the recycling bin. Maybe that many beers, so fast, was a mistake.

"Thanks," Keith says. "Wasn't sure what I'd do if I lost it."

"Yeah." Shiro clears his throat, says the first thing that comes to mind. "Did you ride without a jacket?"

"What? It's next to my boots." Keith points towards the front door. "Anyway, thanks."

"No problem." Shiro raises one sudsy hand. "You okay with showing yourself out?"

"Sure. Just…" Keith hesitates, phone gripped in one hand so tight his knuckles are white. His shoulders shift, dropping and pulling back, and his head comes up. "I don't get you."

"Get me?" Shiro blinks, not sure where that came from.

"I thought you wanted to be friends. No matter how I try, it seems like—you never talk to me unless no one else is around."

Keith shoves the phone in his back pocket, crossing the living room to stand beside the kitchen table. He puts one hand on the wooden surface, like he needs something to hold him steady. His tone is challenging, but his expression is open, brows raised. He looks hurt.

"I can't figure it out." Keith's tone starts plaintive, frustration growing with every word. "I can't predict what I'll say or do that makes you go cold. Then you turn around and you're warm again and I don't know why. What are you thinking? Usually I can guess pretty well. Not with you. With you, I can't tell at all."

"What am I thinking?" Shiro withdraws his hands from the soapy water. He's not been paying attention to the chore since Keith arrived, anyway.

Maybe it's the alcohol in his system, or the quiet tension in Keith's voice. Maybe it's the fear that if he doesn't say something, everything will go wrong. Or worse, it'll go right, and the consequences will be more than he can afford. Whatever it is, it's bubbling in his veins, an angry agitation sweeping away his self-control.

Shiro pushes off, walks around the island, and stands before it. The countertop edge presses against his hips, and Shiro sets his hands on the edges, gripping tight, holding on. He leans back, and the angle tilts his hips forward. His stomach hollows out, his shoulders curl in, a curious mix of aggression and defense. The hem of his shirt barely reaches his waist. There's no hiding the way his sweatpants are tented from his erection.

"There," Shiro says, as Keith's eyes drop to Shiro's crotch. " _That's_ what I'm thinking."

Keith's eyes go wide, and his gaze darts up to meet Shiro's. He takes a step forward, then another. His mouth is open, and when he inhales, his entire chest rises and falls as if he's been running.

"I'm thinking all the time," Shiro says, because now he's started, he can't stop. "About laying you out across this island and sucking you off until you're screaming my name. About bending you over the back of that sofa and fucking you until you can't remember your own name. I want to fuck you on every surface twice over, and when we're done, I want you to do it all to me in return."

Keith is frozen in place, just out of arm's reach. Shiro holds onto the countertop edge, and its sharpness against his palm is the only thing holding him back.

"You want to know what I'm thinking," Shiro challenges. The alcohol's swirling through his system, making his fingers numb and his mouth move without forethought. "I'm thinking about having you all night, you being the last thing I see before I fall asleep and the first thing I see when I wake in the morning."

Keith inhales sharply, and Shiro can't recall looking away but somehow Keith's two steps closer. Close enough to see Keith's pupils are blown out, cheeks flushed, breathing ragged.

Shiro can't seem to loosen his grip, but he can't stop, either. There's something in Keith's silent intensity, the way his chest rises and falls, that pushes Shiro to keep going, to see what'll happen. "Every time you laugh, I think of putting my palm against your stomach to feel your muscles move. Every time you say my name, I think about your lips around my cock. Every time you smile, I think about kissing you."

Keith's tongue slides along his lower lip and darts out, as if tasting the air. His mouth shapes a word, maybe Shiro's name. Keith leans in, shifting his weight, his hands come up. The motion breaks the spell. Reality's cold water comes crashing down on Shiro's head, shoving him underwater. Too late, he knows he went too far.

"Oh, god." Shiro cringes. He'd cover his mouth, but he can't let go of the countertop, and there's no point trying to call back his words. "I shouldn't have said that. That was—I'm—oh, god."

Keith jerks backwards, brows coming down. "But—"

"I shouldn't have said any of that." Shiro can hardly breathe. "That was way out of line."

"I don't—"

"I'm sorry," Shiro repeats, unable to fully stifle the panic. "We're on the same team, and I shouldn't—"

"I can ask to transfer—"

" _It's not an option!_ " Shiro grips the countertop so hard, the whorls of his fingertips must be pressing into the veneer, imprinting as surely as the line of Keith's body is imprinted on Shiro's retinas. "Without your skills to train the AI, the project will fail. Kolivan's not going to let that happen. And I can't transfer, either. I can't do that to Allura. I can't. I owe her too much. Please tell me I didn't just screw it all up."

"Allura?" Keith's brows come down. "What do you mean, you _owe_ her?"

Once again, for no rational reason Shiro can identify, he's opening his mouth and saying things he's never told anyone else. "After the crash, I was… it wasn't good. Allura set aside planning her wedding and flew halfway across the country to stay with me. I was fighting for my sanity... and she fought for everything else. She got the doctors to listen. She handled the bills. She split every task into its parts so I only had to face one small thing at a time. She coaxed me out for simple errands when I could handle it, and gave me a safe space to break down when I couldn't."

Shiro stares at a point around the middle of Keith's chest. It's one thing to admit desire; it's expected of an adult of sound mind and working body. It's another thing to admit to all the ways he's broken. To lay bare all the shattered pieces he had to put back together, painstakingly, knowing the fractures would always remain.

"This project is crucial to Allura, and I _owe_ her." Shiro's voice cracks. He has to stop, swallow, find words again. "People are counting on us. We can't transfer, we can't quit, and… I'm sorry." He doesn't know how many times he'll need to say it, or how many more people he'll need to apologize to, if Keith decides to take offense. "I'm sorry," he says again, miserably.

"I'm not."

Shiro flinches and grips the countertop tighter, waiting for it to crumble to pieces. He's had lovers in the past seven years, but he's kept every intimacy to the physical. He thought he'd perfected his defenses. He has no idea how Keith keeps walking through every single one.

"Stop talking like that," Keith says. "I get it, now. You don't need to apologize for being honest."

"No," Shiro insists. "What I said was inappropriate and unprofessional—"

"And already forgotten," Keith snaps, startling Shiro. "Kolivan's already lectured me about doing the same. So, I figure we're even."

Shiro can't see how that could be remotely true, not on the scale of what he'd said. If it means Keith's willing to dismiss Shiro's words as tipsy rambling, it's a grace Shiro doesn't deserve. He'll take it, anyway.

"I still want to be friends," Keith says. "And that means—we'll be honest." For the first time, his expression falters, and he looks uneasy. "I'm… I'm not very good at talking. It's gonna take some work to be as open as you. But I'll try—I'm not—I don't want to screw this up. If I am, tell me."

Shiro nods, not entirely certain what he's agreeing to.

"Okay." Keith's smile is worried, brows crinkled. "Is that okay?"

"Okay," Shiro echoes, hollow. Que será, será, Lance had said. An attitude Shiro's never quite managed, but the only other choice is to treat Keith like a stranger. It's too late to even consider that. But if Keith's willing to overlook everything Shiro's drunkenly blurted out, it's far more than Shiro deserves.

Keith takes another step back. "I'll see you on Monday, then."

Shiro can't move. His only choice is to watch Keith walking away. Shiro's gaze drifts to the dark windows, as Keith slips into his boots, picks up his jacket, closes the door behind him. The latch clicks with a finality that leaves Shiro gasping for breath.

So much for his promise to resolve everything in a satisfactory manner. Or at all.


	7. Chapter 7

Shiro wakes on Sunday morning to see the empty jug of water beside the bed. It's his secret to avoiding hangovers, but it meant he was up at least three times to piss. He drags himself from the bed for a fourth trip to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, drinks more water, and goes back to bed.

By noon he's bored with sleeping. He takes longer in the shower, scrubbing everything except his brain. He'd had two beers after Keith had left, and those had helped wipe most of the details. Now he just remembers the evening as an amorphous ball of mortification, wrapped in a vague hope that his final agreement with Keith had consisted of some kind of peace, and not a drunken agreement to avoid each other.

Allura's not answering her phone, which means Lotor's spoiling her again. Shiro leaves a message, then calls Colleen and Sam, thanking them for the thoughtful housewarming gift. Pidge must've gotten to them already, because Colleen already marking the family calendar. With Pidge and Shiro in the same city, and Matt flying in for two weeks, Shiro's been chosen to host Christmas.

"I need to get more than an airbed," Shiro frets.

"Our bones aren't that old, yet. We can handle getting up from the floor," Colleen says.

"Pidge'll want to stay, too," Sam chimes in. "She can crash on your sofa, and Matt can stay with you."

"Unless someone else will be taking that space," Colleen says.

Shiro wonders if they can hear the blush over the phone. He manages to disengage with some semblance of courtesy, and isn't surprised when a half-hour later, the phone rings again.

"Matt," Shiro says. "Let me guess—"

"Of course it's Mom's doing, but I'm overdue for checking in, anyway. How's tricks? Broken anything recently?"

Shiro swings his legs around to stretch out down his sofa, one arm thrown over his face. "Maybe. I think I'll find out, tomorrow."

"Whatever it is, it can't be that bad. What is it this time, girl trouble, or boy trouble?"

Shiro sighs. "Boy trouble."

"Okay, lay it on me. What happened?"

It takes a half-hour, peppered with Matt's commentary—he's as much a talkative listener as his sister—but eventually Shiro gets it all out.

"And then I propositioned him," Shiro concludes. "I'm trying to convince myself I couldn't possibly have been as detailed as I remember, but… I think I was."

"Alright. So it is that bad."

Shiro groans.

"Thing is, it takes a lot more than five beers to get you talking so much," Matt says, thoughtfully. "More like ten beers and being hit on the head. Multiple times."

"Shut up." Shiro rubs his forehead. "I regret ever answering the phone."

"No, I've got a point, here."

"Other than the one on the top of your head?"

"Oh, hilarious. I'm saying your story doesn't add up." Matt walks Shiro back through the previous evening, every detail Shiro can remember, then abruptly cuts Shiro off with a triumphant cry. "I was right!"

"Where?"

"Normally, you'd walk around to the front of the sofa!" Matt is strangely gleeful. "And who gets home, changes clothes—"

"I do," Shiro says, annoyed.

"Sure, but if you're going back out again, you change back. I've seen you do it even for a trip to the convenience store."

"I'm not going out looking like—" Shiro's brain catches up. "What are you getting at?" He suspects, but he needs to hear it, to make sure he's not imagining things.

"So Keith leaves, comes back like an hour later wearing jeans twice as tight. And a loose tank top. On the pretense of losing his phone—"

"It wasn't necessarily a pretense. Pidge forgets her phone everywhere—"

"Right, fine. And then he bends over the _back_ of the sofa to look under the cushions? And takes another fifteen minutes to find it, despite the fact that you have like, what, four pieces of furniture total in your living room? He was _signaling_. Casually trying to catch your eye, in hopes you'll give some sign you like what you see."

"I did that, alright," Shiro says, sourly. "Enough for HR to string me up, after which Allura would draw and quarter me."

"I doubt HR will ever find out. He would've just punched you, instead."

"I guess." Shiro wants to believe Matt's version of events, but something won't let him. It's too good, it's too much what he _wishes_ were true, and that kind of thing demands caution.

"Hold on, let me switch to headset," Matt says. "Doing a grocery store run, so it's your turn."

Shiro grins, lowering his arm and blinking at the afternoon light through the windows. "Scuttlebutt says you broke up with the airline pilot."

Matt's turn to groan. "It's complicated."

They've done this since they were college freshmen. Matt's better at befriending people, but when he gets wrapped up in a new project, everything falls away except the problem in front of him—and he's always got at least three projects going on. It's Shiro's task to yank Matt out of his head to remember social courtesies and the rest of the world. In return, Matt's played the angel to Shiro's mental devils for just as long.

But it's also why Matt's the one person on the planet who can open a certain topic. After fourteen years of friendship, Shiro can feel it coming. He no longer gets defensive, either. In a way, Matt's words make Shiro feel about as loved as he ever has.

"Bro," Matt says. "I know you're finally within visiting distance of Allura and Lotor, and Pidge, but you've got a lot on your plate. You went from familiar routine to a brand-new world."

"It hasn't been all bad. Some days I think I've got it, some days… I feel like I'm faking it."

"New home, new job, new city. Big change." Matt's voice holds an affectionate smile. "Sounds like time to find a new therapist. Things have got you off-balance that usually you'd let slide as unimportant. You need someone in your corner."

"You're right," Shiro says. It's his version of sending Matt's love right back in equal measure. "I just… I'm thirty-two. Why doesn't this ever get easier?"

"Look at it this way: in two years, you'll be at the halfway point. Seventeen years of good to undo seventeen years of shit, y'know?"

 _Seventeen years of shit_. A phrase Shiro had used in a rare confessional mood, back in college. Shiro's always suspected that uncharacteristic truth, brought on by the stress of exams, was the final factor in the Holts adopting him.

"Only two more years to go," Matt says, cheerfully. "You're almost there!"

Shiro laughs. "Right. And in two years, you might finally manage a relationship for longer than three weeks."

"Life goals, my brother. Everyone's gotta have one." Matt inhales sharply, and Shiro rolls his eyes, knowing what's coming. "Oh, wow, I just saw the most _beautiful_ woman, and she's hanging out in the frozen food aisle. My area of expertise. Gotta go!"

 

 

 

Monday morning, and Shiro holds it together through an early meeting, then ducks out to find one of the private phone booths. It takes a half-hour on the line with insurance, and at the end, he's got an appointment with a therapist whose office is four blocks from Shiro's apartment.

The team's waiting, ready for the daily standup. Maybe something finally shifted on Saturday, despite Shiro's blunder, or maybe it's knowing in two days he'll have a safe place to talk without being judged. Whatever the reason, Shiro walks through the door with a cheerful greeting.

Pidge and Lance are bent over one of Lance's sketches. Pidge waves over her shoulder without looking. Hunk moves his bag off the seat beside him to make room for Shiro. Keith looks up from his laptop with a smile bright enough to dim the lights in comparison.

Startled, Shiro smiles back. Tentative at first, then wider. Relief floods him. Maybe everything he thought he'd said, he'd only just thought, and not said.

After standup, Keith heads to his daily two grueling hours in the simulator, and Shiro's off to his weekly guest spot on Thace's team. An impromptu meeting in the hour before lunch, and Shiro's hoping to get time to finally check email over lunch. Instead, Keith catches him in the hallway, for possibly the first time ever.

"Hungry? I was thinking of catching lunch before the rush," Keith says.

"Oh, good idea." Shiro's got his laptop balanced on one arm, checking email as he walks. He looks up, and nearly drops the laptop at another smile from Keith.

"Put that away," Keith says, repeating Shiro's words back at him. "A break is good."

More's changed than just one drunken confession could cause. Maybe Keith's had a breakthrough of his own, giving him confidence Shiro's never really seen before. And for once, Shiro's brain doesn't spin off into inappropriate thoughts. He's too busy reeling, anyway.

Shiro regains balance long enough to ask Lance if he wants to join them for lunch. Lance waves a sandwich at them, and taps his earbuds. Phone meeting, then.

The walk to the cafe, Shiro steers the conversation to Keith, asking about his classes, and Eliza's projects, and the upcoming monthly showcase. He keeps every topic as far away from himself as possible. He can't stop the giddiness curling in his gut, though, every time Keith looks over with a half-smile on his lips.

It's not until they're done eating, trash thrown away, and walking back through the courtyard that the mood shifts.

"There's something I need to ask." Keith's tone is quiet, hesitant. "When I came back for my phone—"

"Oh, god." Shiro stops dead in his tracks. No amount of apologizing is going to fix this. Maybe Matt's suggestion would. "Just punch me and get it over with."

"Why?" Keith asks. "I only—" He takes a deep breath, turning to face Shiro on the shady walkway. "We agreed on honesty, right?"

"There's a line between honesty and overload," Shiro replies. "And I—"

"Stop," Keith says, expression too serious. "How many beers had you had, when I showed up?"

"Uhm… five. Why?"

"You do that a lot? Wait until you're alone to drink?"

Shiro exhales, understanding. "Not really. I'll have a drink socially, but even that, maybe every few months at most. Pidge had left the ale, I liked the taste, and forgot it wasn't like drinking soda."

"Five beers would be a lot of soda," Keith points out, rightfully skeptical.

Shiro knows his smile is sheepish. "I know. I've never been much of a drinker, so I'm not really sure what my tolerance is. Never put much effort into testing it."

The tension slides out of Keith's shoulders, so gradually Shiro might've missed it, had he not been paying attention. It's startling, but not half as much as the implications.

"You were worried about me?" Shiro isn't sure how to react.

Keith averts his gaze, mouth going flat for the first time all day.

The meaning is suddenly clear. "You've been there," Shiro says.

The answer is less a shrug than a twitch. "Yeah," Keith whispers. "I—it was my last foster father's thing. For awhile, I tried—until I wised up, saw it didn't help—then Saturday reminded me—" He exhales, finally. "I needed to make sure."

"Understandable. Saturday… that wasn't like me, at all. I'm not used to having people over. It kinda threw me, I guess. Enough that I wasn't paying attention."

"Yeah." Keith shakes himself, his smile returning. "Y'know, if that happens again, maybe you shouldn't be alone. Maybe call someone."

The answer falls out of Shiro's mouth, too easily. "You offering?"

Keith starts walking again. "Maybe I am." He throws a sideways glance at Shiro. "There's a good Thai place like three blocks from your apartment, too."

"Haven't had Thai in a few weeks," Shiro agrees. "I've been considering making it a regular thing. Thursdays seem like a good day for it."

"Taco Tuesday, Thai Thursday?" Keith asks.

Shiro smiles. It feels like half the conversation is happening under the surface. Que será, será.

 

 

 

The days pass into weeks. Pidge's AI system enters the testing stage, now graced by Lance's sleek and modern interface. Hunk's engineering lends the drone touches of style that double as ingenious solutions to the problems Shiro had found. Keith's spending almost all his time in the simulators, running every possible course Pidge's team can create. The AI is learning as fast as Keith can train it, combined with information gathered from anyone else willing to volunteer.

Shiro holds himself back from offering, though he knows Keith's not the only one puzzled by his apparent disinterest in flying the simulator. Life is settling into a routine, finally. Mondays, he has lunch with Allura; Wednesdays he skips the gym after work to see his therapist. It's been awhile since he's done guided meditation before bed, and good to get back into.

Thursdays, he meets Keith at the Thai place, and they talk. Yet another unspoken agreement: it's always hot tea for both. The longing has settled into a space under Shiro's heart, waiting for a chance to crack open. He refuses to let it; if he can't lie about what he said, he can steadfastly refuse to repeat it.  

Every other week, the team gets together for happy hour on Friday. Sometimes with people from other teams; sometimes only the five of them. On alternating Fridays, Shiro texts Keith after work, some variation on the same question: _what are you doing this weekend?_

They don't always get together, but they do more often than not. Shiro combs the local news for upcoming events, things he suspects Keith would enjoy but would never see alone. By the end of July, he's pretty sure Keith's been doing the same. A Bollywood movie. A rodeo. A picnic for Shakespeare in the Park; Keith ends up sunburnt, Shiro gets poison ivy. And the whole time, Shiro's confession lies between them, set aside but not truly forgotten.

 

 

 

The city swelters in the last days of July, through the first weeks of August. Shiro's running before dawn, now. By the time the sun's up, it's already in the nineties; the humidity's spiking, causing heat lightning some afternoons. No rain, though.

His Friday commute home goes from ten minutes to thirty, thanks to a three-car pile up. When he reaches his storage-garage, first thing off is the jacket. Second, he puts down the kick stand. Third, he opens his phone and texts Keith. This week's variation is: a _ny plans this weekend?_

A few minutes later, Keith texts back: _new exhibit at the museum on ceramics._ Then a second one, uncharacteristically. _Plus the museum has air-conditioning._

Shiro laughs. _2pm tomorrow?_ He doesn't bother checking his calendar. It's pathetic, but if Keith's available, Shiro will shift everything short of a trip home to see the Holts.

 _Sounds good_ , Keith replies.

That's it. They keep it to only that, no matter how much Shiro wishes to say more. To call, even. His friday evenings are usually quiet, if lonely. He leaves his phone charging in the kitchen; it's less temptation, that way. Otherwise he'd linger before it, wishing he had an excuse to text Keith again. Maybe even call, just to hear Keith's voice. Better to keep the phone out of sight.

Shiro reads until ten, when the words start swimming on the page. He sets the book down, clicks off the light, and falls asleep halfway through his nightly meditation.

He comes awake in the darkness, disoriented. His bedside clock says it's almost one in the morning. The intercom buzzer sounds again. Shiro stumbles from his bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

He hits the button. "What do you want?"

"Shiro?" Pidge's tone is almost a whine. "A really long… I don't feel..."

She doesn't say anything else. Shiro stares, uncomprehending, then hits the button again, shouting Pidge's name. She doesn't answer.

Instincts kick in, and Shiro launches himself back into his bedroom, pulls on his sweatpants, grabs his keys and a shirt from the hamper. He pulls the shirt on as he runs down the stairs, leaping the last three at each landing.

Pidge is huddled in the corner by the front door. There are tear tracks on her face, and the most she can manage is to flap her hands at him.

"Oh, Katie," Shiro says. "Okay, arms around my neck. Let's get you inside."

Pidge isn't much help, but she's small and light, enough that he can piggyback her with one hand while he unlocks the door with the other. There's a faint odor of vomit around her. He hopes that means she's less likely to throw up on the way up the stairs.

She's much heavier after three flights of stairs. He sets her down on his bathroom floor and gets a good look at her. Pidge leans her head on the cool porcelain, arms cradling the toilet.

Shiro sighs. "There'd better be a good story behind this, Katie."

He strips off his shirt for a clean one, then grabs a second shirt and cut-off sweatpants for her. He fills his water bottle for her, then kneels beside her, tugging off her boots and socks.

"Skin the cat." He coaxes her arms up and gets the shirt off her. She grumbles but keeps her arms up, and he gets the clean shirt over her head, arms through the right holes.

Pidge moans, and Shiro catches her hair as a wave of retching hits her. He leans past her, flushes, then badgers her into drinking half the water.

"Bra," he orders. If there's one thing he's learned thanks to siblingship with Pidge, it's that she wears underwires for the look, not the comfort.

She wriggles in the shirt, taking three tries before she gets her bra undone and pulled out one sleeve. He tosses the bra on the pile to be washed. Pidge makes a choking sound and throws up again. Mostly water, this time. He considers that progress.

It's strange, though. Matt's the wild one. Pidge is the midpoint between Matt and Shiro in a lot of ways, neither cautious with her limits, nor determined to blow through every one.

Pidge comes around enough to get her jeans off by herself; it takes her almost five minutes to painstakingly pull on the shorts. More water down her throat, and by Shiro's estimate, she's probably out of the woods, sick-wise.

Shiro sets a trashcan by the sofa, just in case, and helps her onto the makeshift bed. He leaves her to finish the water, while he starts the wash. Turns out she'd had only her wallet and keys. He bends over the back of the sofa, brushing the sweat-damp hair from her forehead.

"Katie," he says. "Did you take a cab when you went out?"

"Bike," she says, or at least that's what it sounds like. She can barely form the words, but he's pretty sure she's trying to insist she wouldn't ride after drinking.

Shit. Her bike's probably sitting on the street. If his guess is right and she was bar-hopping in the commercial district, she's got another half-hour before the bike gets ticketed and towed.

"Where were you? I need to know where you left the bike. Katie, wake up, where'd you park?"

She blinks at him, scrunches up her face, and names an address about three miles away. So much for him fetching it himself.

Shiro paces the room, thinking. Hunk's gone for the weekend to stay with his girlfriend, and Lotor or Allura would help but neither know how to ride a motorcycle. He could ask them to come over, but by the time they arrived and he could leave, it'd be too late. There's only one other person he can think to call.  

Keith answers on the second ring, fumbles the phone, and his voice comes on. Panicked. "Shiro! What's going on?"

"I'm fine, I have a huge favor to ask—" Shiro runs a hand over his face. "Pidge is here, and she left her bike on 17th. I'm really sorry, but I don't want to leave her for too long. I've got her keys, if you could fetch her bike for me?"

"Pidge is there?" Keith asks, but there's slamming, thumping. He sounds like he's moving about, and Shiro can only hope that means Keith's willing. "It'll take a cab like five minutes, right? I'm not that far."

"I owe you," Shiro says, relieved. "I'll call a cab and meet you at the front with her keys."

"On my way," Keith says, and hangs up.

Not even five minutes later, Keith's arrived, and so has the cab. Shiro hands over a rough map: where to find Pidge's bike, where to park it behind Shiro's building. And, on impulse, Shiro's spare set of keys.

A half-hour later, Pidge has sobered up marginally as the alcohol works through her system. More water, an unsteady trip to the bathroom to pee and brush her teeth, and Shiro settles down on the coffee table, tucking the blankets in around her. He's turned off all but the front hall light, in case she needs to get up again.

"Katie, this isn't like you," he says. "What happened?"

Shiro's door clicks and Keith steps into the pool of light, jingling the two sets of keys. He bends over to undo his boots.

"I'm gonna be _fired_ ," Pidge wails.

The sound echoes in the apartment, startling enough that Keith almost loses his balance. Pidge's words become a drawn-out moan that breaks into sobbing.

"Hey, hey, hey," Shiro says, guiding Pidge upright and sliding in beside her.

" _So fired_ ," she cries, and throws her arms around his neck like she's twelve again.

Keith appears around the end of the sofa, baffled. He mouths something, and Shiro nods his head at the nearest chair, not sure if Keith's willing to wait but a little occupied. Pidge's crying subsides into hiccups, and Shiro gestures at Keith until Keith catches on and hands over the water bottle.

"Drink, you need to finish that up," Shiro says. "Now, tell me what happened."

The story comes out in fits and starts, broken by sniffling and long swallows of water. Pidge had gone out with her roommates, and run into Lance and two of his friends. She and Lance got to talking, and before they knew it, their friends had gone on without them. Pidge had forgotten her phone at home, and Lance's phone had died. Their solution was to walk down 17th, talking, casually looking for their friends. They'd had a few beers each, maybe, until they'd forgotten to keep looking, too absorbed in talking.

And on the corner of 17th and East River, one minute Lance was telling a joke, the next Pidge was kissing him. She dissolves into tears again, and it takes a few more minutes to calm her down enough to reveal the cause: Hira stepped out of the corner restaurant with two friends and almost ran right into them.

"So busted," Pidge moans. "She gave us The Look!"

"I've seen the look," Keith whispers, too low for Pidge to hear. "Not good."

Shiro sighs. "Did she say anything? What did she do?"

"I can't _remember_ ," Pidge admits. "I was too busy throwing myself _backwards_ about fifteen feet and I _think_ Lance did the same. I just _ran_."

It doesn't add up. If Pidge had been that drunk already, she would've been leaning on Lance just to stand up. Shiro prompts her for more, and the rest of the confession comes out: she'd headed into the nearest bar and downed four shots of vodka in rapid succession.

"After beer?" Shiro holds out the empty water bottle to Keith. "We're gonna need a lot more water, I think."

Keith's grin is rueful, but he takes the bottle and heads to the kitchen. Pidge seems uncaring that Shiro's holding her, yet the bottle's put in her hands, mysteriously refilled. She drinks, clutching it in both hands, curled halfway on Shiro's lap, her head against his chest.

"The folks are gonna be so disappointed, and Matt'll never let me forget it, and—" Pidge breaks into tears again. "He's _such_ a good kisser, Shiro, how'm I supposed to _work_ and not think about that _all the time_?"

Shiro kisses her on the forehead. "It's going to take effort. First thing, we can hope Hira could tell it was an impulse thing, and will let it go—"

Keith shakes his head. It's not clear in the dark apartment what he's mouthing; from his expression, Shiro suspects it's _fat chance_.

"Okay. If she doesn't, then I guess you'll each talk to Iverson," Shiro says. "This is his turf, not mine." Thankfully. "I think it might be good enough, if you both swear on a stack of technical manuals that it was a one-time thing. And it'll never, ever happen again."

"But I _want_ it to!"

"Yeah," Shiro whispers, rubbing her back as she cries.

Eventually she grows quiet, her weight heavier against his chest. He waits until her breathing's steadied. Keith takes the water bottle, and Shiro extricates himself, laying Pidge down on her side. He tucks her in with a last brush of his fingertips across her head, and straightens up. His back cracks, and he winces.

"You really are an older brother," Keith says, sounding awed.

"That's how it turned out." Shiro steers Keith away from the sofa so their voices don't wake Pidge. "Thanks for fetching her bike. I really owe you. Whenever you need anything, just let me know."

"No problem. Figured if the positions were reversed…"

"Absolutely." Shiro grins. "Though I hope if you ever have a little sister, she has more sense."

"Pidge has plenty of sense." Keith doesn't sound like he's defending her, though. He sounds impressed, an odd note among too many in one night. "She's got guts."

"And even with all that water, an oncoming hangover."

"Should we postpone tomorrow? We could do the museum on Sunday," Keith offers.

"By then, if she's still here, she'll be fine by herself." Shiro shrugs, following Keith to the door. He leans against the wall while Keith pulls on his boots and laces them up. "She'll probably be gone by ten, anyway. I don't have a television, which is a heresy in her reality."

Keith laughs. "That makes us both heretics."

Shiro puts out a hand, helping Keith stand. For some reason, he doesn't let go, marveling at the warmth of Keith's fingers, the grip matching him strength for strength. Belatedly, he lets go, wishing he didn't have to. Keith drops his hand, rubbing his thumb and two fingers. Not quite a clenched fist, but the same sensation. Shiro crosses his arms, feeling awkward.

"I put the keys on the kitchen counter," Keith says. "I'm—I guess I'll head back now. Let you get some sleep."

Shiro nods, too disconcerted by the way the single light casts Keith's expression in shadows, and sets Keith's black hair to glinting with blue. He wants to reach out, brush Keith's bang from his face, run fingers down Keith's cheek. Keith puts a hand on the doorknob and leans against the door. He tilts up his chin, tongue coming out to lick his lips. The movement demands Shiro's attention, and it takes a breathless second for Shiro to snap back to himself.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," Shiro says.

It's the last thing he wants to say. But Keith nods, gives him a crooked smile, and slips out the door. Shiro shuts it behind Keith and leans against it. For a moment he imagines it's Keith's body heat against him. Pidge's snoring fills the living room, breaking the moment.

Shiro checks on her one last time, and heads to bed. Alone.

 

 

 

August becomes September, and the days grow cooler. After a tense self-enforced distance between Pidge and Lance for most of August—aided by some strict lectures and threats of probation from Iverson—the team gradually returns to its usual dynamics. Whatever remains between Pidge and Lance, neither are acting on it. The first leaves begin to fall.

A new batch of interns arrives with the start of classes. Textbooks appear in Keith's bag, and he studies during lunch. Lance and Hunk eat with him, ready to offer help. Pidge usually joins them, fascinated as always by the college experience. Shiro joins when he's not pulled into meetings with Allura or Kolivan.

Third week of the semester, Keith's agonizing over his first composition assignment. Shiro's offer to review Keith's work is greeted with skepticism from the team, until Shiro admits his undergrad minor was medieval literature. Yes, Shiro _has_ written papers on more than just math or engineering.

"Astronomy and medieval literature," Hunk says, dumbfounded. "Because those go so well together."

"Pay up," Pidge crows at Lance and Hunk. "You both owe me ten bucks!"

"But—medieval literature," Keith says, as much at a loss as Hunk.

"I liked the professor." Shiro shrugs. "I just kept taking all my electives in that department, and it turned into a minor."

September gives way to October. Attraction bubbles under Shiro's skin, a background radiation to his daily life. There are evenings when he wishes the imposed distance were gone; some chilly mornings, he wishes the distance were greater. Perhaps halfway around the world, he could forget the desire tingling in his fingertips when Keith says Shiro's name.

Maybe Matt was right, a fact Shiro admits to his therapist but not to Matt. Maybe saying everything out loud was what it took to let the infatuation ease.

Then again, Keith's worked hard at opening up, in ways Shiro doubts would ever have happened had they been distracted by the physical. Little by little, they've given each other the puzzle pieces of their histories. The stories are strung together by details Shiro only craves to know because the words are falling from Keith's lips. There's much they don't agree on, and far more where they do. Mountains, not beaches. Old rural towns, not cities. Birdsong, not bars.

October arrives, and with it, the demonstrations to the senior VPs.

 

 

 

Shiro finishes tweaking the algorithms. "Alright, Lance," he says, and starts the program. "You should have final numbers in about a half-hour, I think."

"Good. Almost done here." Lance's in charge of the presentations, being the mastermind behind how the team will position its work and show its value.

Pidge and Hunk are at an engineering meeting, huddling with the group that'll do its best to destroy little Aloysius. Both are pretty glum about it, despite Shiro's observation that the point of testing is to fail now, rather than when the room's full of C-suite bigwigs.

Keith slams into the glass door, shoves it open, and nearly falls into the room. He rarely panics—though he'll flinch at certain loud noises—so his desperate expression has Shiro out of his seat immediately.

"Shiro," Keith gasps. "Can I—I need—can we talk? Please?"

Lance gives Keith a puzzled look, and pointedly pulls on his headphones.

Despite that, Keith waves Shiro close. "I need to ask a huge favor," Keith whispers. "Tomorrow—the simulation—"

"Breathe," Shiro orders, squashing the fear that Keith will ask Shiro to do it, instead. "What's going on?"

"My mom!" Keith runs a hand through his hair, and his bangs fall back into his face, messier than before. "She's coming up, after all—I've got the meeting before, and then the simulation's an hour, and—it'll be lunch before I'm free—"

"Keith." Shiro takes Keith by the shoulders, shakes him once, gently. " _Breathe_."

"I _am_ ," Keith snaps. "Just—everyone seems to think Lance does the tour stuff—but if _he_ does it—you _know_ he'll tell my Mom every embarrassing thing he _can_ , he's _Lance_ —"

"I can hear my name," Lance calls, one headphone held away from his ear. "Don't give me that look, it's my superpower. What are you saying about me?"

"Nothing," Keith says, turning Shiro's grip around to shove Shiro out the door. "Go back to work!"

Lance flips Keith off without looking, and settles his headphones back into place.

"Yes," Shiro says, once they're in the hallway, glass walls between them and Lance's curious glances. He's got a meeting at ten the next day, but that's skippable. "I think I know enough now to do the tour. I'll make sure to only say good things."

"No, don't." Keith's still a little wild-eyed. "That'll make her suspicious. I'm not—she's just—I just want her to know I'm—I don't want her thinking I'm—"

"Hey," Shiro says. "You focus on the simulation. I got this."

The next hour is a barrage of email tag with Kolivan's assistant, who finally deigns to tell Shiro that Kolivan's already made plans for breakfast with Keith's mom. Shiro will meet them in the lobby at ten. It takes another round of emails and a few fortuitous run-ins in the hallway to confirm what the team can, and cannot, say about their work to a non-employee, even a relative. And to find out what Shiro can, and cannot, show her, or tell her about any projects.

The last person Shiro sees before the day ends is Ezor, walking out with her pack over her shoulder. His once-jealousy is gone, thanks to learning the truth. The company has a forum for LGBT+ employees, and Ezor's one of the organizers. Lesbian, in a long-term relationship with a park ranger. Not above causing a little trouble when the mood strikes her.

"Hey," Shiro says, catching her attention. "What's your team doing tomorrow? Any demos?"

"We've got one at eleven, runs a half-hour," Ezor says. "Nothing big. What's up?"

"Keith's mom will be here." Shiro explains the schedule, and the hour gap between the simulation and Keith's freedom from meetings.

"Bring her by the lab," Ezor says with a cheery grin. "We'll hide any secret projects, but we've got plenty of other stuff we can show off."

At ten the next morning, Shiro's in the lobby. It's a week of dressing to impress, so at least he's already presentable. Button-up shirt with a tie, khakis, boots. He's not riding in loafers. He did polish the boots, though. Old habits.

With the broad glass windows looking out on the building's front law, Shiro has a chance to observe the two approaching. Keith's mother is in heels and a trim skirt; she's got a lean build much like Keith's, but military in her bearing.

What draws Shiro's attention is the way Kolivan walks, hands clasped before him, nodding as the woman talks. Kolivan had said he'd never had children, but Shiro's seen Sam with Pidge plenty to recognize the way a father speaks with his adult daughter. Mutual respect, a quiet affection. No wonder Shiro often gets a sense that Keith is not just another mentee of Kolivan's, but a kind of grandson.

Once they're inside, Kolivan waves Shiro over and excuses himself.

"I'm Keith's team lead," Shiro says, offering his hand. "Shiro."

"Krolia." Her grip is firm and uncompromising. "Keith's mentioned you. Astronomy professor?"

"Yes, in my previous life." Shiro gestures to the reception desk. "We need to get you a visitor's badge, and have you sign an NDA, ma'am. Keith's in a meeting right now, so he asked me to show you around. The simulation run is at ten, and I've arranged a visit to the cybernetics lab after that. Keith won't be out of meetings until noon."

"You're keeping him busy. Also, don't _ma'am_ me, I wasn't an officer. Krolia will do."

Shiro smothers the grin, surprised she didn't add the part about working for a living. Nothing like a Navy NCO for attitude. He makes it through the main public areas without incident, walks her through the studio, and then into the engineering areas. Allura happens by, and does an obvious double-take at Krolia.

"This is Krolia Kogane," Shiro says. "She's come up to see the test simulation run."

"Keith's mother?" Allura exclaims, sticking out her hand. "Allura wa Alfor. A pleasure to meet you."

"A pleasure," Krolia echoes. She looks about to ask something, when a chirp sounds from Allura's jacket pocket.

Allura digs out her phone. "Another fire." She tucks the phone away, and with it, her frown. "I'll save you seats at the simulation. We were _incredibly_ lucky to get Keith," she adds, with a radiant smile. "His skills have really pushed us all to the next level in aeronautics. Have to run, see you in an hour!"

She dashes off, phone already to her ear. Krolia turns to watch Allura go, then her gaze shifts to look Shiro up and down. He gives her a sheepish smile, not sure whether he should be apologizing for Allura's hit-and-run style.

"That's interesting." Krolia continues down the hall, studying the various design posters the interns have been creating.

"Pardon?" Shiro manages to hold back the _ma'am_ just in time.

"I was starting to wonder whether you had any intention of mentioning my son, at all." Krolia's gaze could cut glass, though her tone is neutral. "It's good to see at least one person around here knows him."

Shiro clears his throat. "I figured anything I had to say, you could see for yourself in the simulation run."

"Really?" Krolia says it too flatly. "I'm well aware of my son's abilities, Shiro. My question is whether you are."

He stops short, annoyed at the presumption. "His skills as a pilot leave me breathless, _ma'am_. He's an integral part of the team and crucial to our success."

Krolia's mouth flattens at the borderline insult Shiro's leveled at her. A heartbeat passes, and her expression smoothes. Shiro stands down as well, relieved.

"This way," he says. "We have a maker's lab with a 3D printer. It's where I usually find the team when they need a break. Keith and Hunk came up with an idea for toy airplanes that lock together to become a humanoid robot."

A half-hour later, he shows her into the auditorium on the third floor for the simulation run. Allura's down at the front, talking to several of the engineers. She catches sight of Shiro and waves, pointing to seats in the second row. Shiro waves back, about to tell Krolia when Keith enters from the side, headset in his hands. He's dressed up—for him, at least—in slim black slacks and a long-sleeved t-shirt.

Keith looks up in time to catch the tail-end of Shiro's wave to Allura. Keith smiles, an open expression, and Shiro instinctively smiles back. He gave up fighting the warm feeling in his chest months ago; there's just something about Keith's smile that makes Shiro feel whole.

Krolia's heels click on the steps, as Shiro's phone buzzes. He checks the number; it's Thace. "I need to take this." He points out the seats, and Krolia heads in that direction. She makes no attempt to catch Keith's attention, to Shiro's surprise.

The simulation setup is below the stage, where six vertical monitors form a tall half-circle. The large screen on the stage—out of Keith's line of sight—will display roughly a quarter of what Keith's actually seeing. Shiro has a feeling some of the groundwalkers in the audience are going to feel a bit queasy by the time the flight is done.

Keith settles into the pilot's chair, a cross between the most complex reclining chair ever and a large box, like being settled into a mainframe. He's got his headset on, one ear off while he holds a last-minute discussion with the engineers. They back away, settling down with their laptops in the front row, each watching the results of their tests. Some are controlling the asteroid movements, while others will trigger random collisions.

Shiro settles in beside Krolia, and Allura leans over to get Shiro to bend closer. Krolia leans back to give him room.

"Why are the asteroids so large?" Allura asks. "They were teeny, last time. I thought the point was to mimic the real thing."

"Keith had them bring everything into proportion," Shiro explains. "That's why everyone kept crashing, before. We're used to thinking of ourselves in our terms, rather than sizing our self-perception down to the size of a space drone only three feet square."

"Oh!" Allura smiles. "Got it."

One of the engineers gives a two-minute introduction to the audience, while Keith goes through a series of systems checks. A few people in the third row are already making soft sounds of complaints as the big screen spins, halts, tumbles backwards. The engineer points out the so-called horizon, which is simply the direction of Earth. Another suggestion from Keith, Shiro explains; pilots are used to reference points, and space has none of its own.

Keith takes the course at double Shiro's comfortable speed, and he does it flawlessly, using maneuvers that would've broken apart a terrestrial jet. That's part of the beauty of Hunk's design, bolstered by Shiro's computations. Shiro doubts he could manage the same on the first try; the little drone can move in any direction, pushing Keith to use every control with far more finesse than the average fighter jet would demand.

Forty-five minutes later, the lights come back up for the question-and-answer segment. Keith doesn't participate, busy climbing out of the pilot's box. His hair's plastered to his head with sweat, and Shiro looks around, curious. There seem to be about a dozen empty seats, and at least half the audience looks somewhat green. 

When the audience rises, Shiro asks Krolia whether she had any questions that hadn't been addressed during the session. Her answering smile is enigmatic. Shiro's struck by the odd worry that he's seeing a glimpse of Keith in sixteen years. It almost makes Shiro despair: he can barely figure out what Keith's thinking most of the time, now. Shiro's pretty sure in sixteen years he'll be lucky to grasp even half the range of Kogane expressions.

 

 

 

When Ezor's team finishes their weekly demonstration, Thace claims Shiro for a review of some issues on sustainable turning radii. Ulaz swings by at that point, and congenially offers to show Krolia the rest of the lab. Afterwards, Shiro finds them bent over a set of schematics; he clears his throat, uncomfortably aware they've probably been discussing Shiro's prosthesis.

"I just got a text from Keith," Shiro says. "He's meeting us at the cafe." He makes light conversation, glad when Keith meets them at the elevators.

"I thought we could sit outside," Keith says, with a glance that includes Shiro.

Shiro hadn't planned on taking up Lance's offer, but he's suddenly glad of it. "I need to duck into the design meeting, so I'm just going to grab something and take it back." He's absolutely certain eating would be impossible under Krolia's intense observation.

Keith's smile falters, and Shiro distracts him with questions about Keith's maneuvers in the simulation. Once in the cafe, they split apart; Shiro heads for the salad bar, while Keith goes for a sandwich, and Krolia chooses the soup station. Shiro gets waylaid by Lotor, leaving with his team; by the time Shiro gets in line for a salad, he's two people behind Krolia.

Keith joins Krolia; her hand darts out to swat Keith lightly on the head.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me," she says.

"Ow," Keith mutters, rubbing his head as though the glancing blow had damaged anything other than his pride. "I don't know what you're talking about. Did you want iced—"

Whatever Krolia says, it's too low for Shiro to hear. But he looks up, anyway, and nearly drops his salad box to see Keith's face drained of all color—and just as quickly, flushing fully red. Keith mumbles something, turning away, while Krolia rolls her eyes at his back.

Their dynamic holds none of the animosity Shiro would've expected from such a physical touch. Neither do they show the temperate kindness Shiro's grown to accept from Colleen or Sam. Shiro trails them, trying to appear casual, but fascinated all the same.

Krolia joins Keith in line and elbows him sharply enough to send Keith a step sideways—without even looking in his direction. A minute later, Keith appears to step on Krolia's foot. Shiro looks away, amused. With Krolia's heels, the two are equal in height, and one glance at their faces would make it obvious to anyone they're related. And, it seems, they tease each other in a similar physical fashion.

Shiro moves to a different line and texts Keith an apology that they'd gotten split up. He heads to his meeting, lunch box in one hand, trying and failing to stifle his curiosity. Krolia had seemed absolutely confident of Keith's skills. Had she actually been caught off-guard by what he could do in the pilot's seat?

There are times Keith seems uncertain, but never when it comes to flying. He's good, and he's aware of it. Not arrogant, but confident. Perhaps Krolia had realized she'd been wrong to counsel Keith out of chasing that dream of being a fighter pilot.

It's not too late, after all. Keith's only twenty-six.

Shiro pushes open the doors to the main building, absently nodding to familiar faces passing by. He knows his expression is preoccupied, but he keeps a slight smile on his face. Better to hide the sudden knots in his stomach.

Enlisting means leaving. First bootcamp, then basic training, and then Keith would return to school, whichever school the military chose. Probably in the next state over, if Keith elected to use his mother's residence as his home state.

By the time Shiro reaches the meeting, he's decided. If that's the way it works out, Shiro would rather Keith chase his dreams and be happy, than stay with Shiro and be miserable.


	8. Chapter 8

November's chilly, but knowing the project's successfully concluded is news that keeps Shiro warm. Lance is moving to the Automation team; Pidge is going back to avionics to work on the next generation of jet training applications. Hunk's joining Ulaz' team, and Keith is transferring to the product management team. Kolivan leaves it to Thace to give Shiro the news.

"Had to pull rank," Thace says, over lunch on Tuesday. "Almost lost you to the Avionics team, but I managed to out-argue Hira. Sometimes it's the small victories."

By Friday lunchtime, presentations are over; the rest of the day's meetings are probably skippable. The team's mostly relaxing, work truly done for once.

"We should do one last happy hour," Hunk declares.

"Can't." Pidge checks her phone again. "Got to run to the airport." She throws an annoyed look Shiro's way. "Since _someone_ used a two-headed coin."

"Never." Shiro shrugs, unperturbed. He was the one who'd helped Matt pack everything into storage, when Sam's father died. Pidge would have to deal with the unpacking and cataloging. "Have fun."

"Yeah." Pidge checks her phone for the fifth time. "Why isn't the cab here yet?"

"I can give you a ride to the airport." Lance sweeps his stuff into his bag, ready to go.

"You sure? That's a lot of driving both ways," Pidge says, dubious.

"Gives me an excuse to get out of here early." Lance yanks the door open. "Wave to everyone. Let's take the stairs so we won't run into Kolivan or Allura." The glass doors shut behind them, muffling Lance's voice and Pidge's laughter.

Hunk cranes his neck to watch them go. "Five bucks says she's gonna miss her flight."

"I don't make bets with you anymore." Keith finishes cleaning one whiteboard wall, and moves to the next.

"She'll be fine." Shiro archives another set of emails. "She leaves her phone everywhere, but she's terminally three hours early to the airport."

An alert pops up for his next meeting. For a moment, he considers cancelling, and decides against it. If nothing else, it's a chance to let people know where he's moving to, team-wise.

An hour later, he returns to find Hunk and Keith had finished cleaning and pushed the desks out into the open workspace area. All that's left is one table, Shiro's monitor, and his bag. Looks like the day's already over. Shiro swings by Thace's team, leaving the monitor on an empty desk. He'll deal with getting settled on Monday.

A little after four, he pulls into the alley behind his apartment building. Shiro walks the bike backwards into the garage, puts down the kickstand, and climbs off the bike. The chilly breeze wends through the alley, brushing the back of Shiro's neck as he digs out his phone. He taps in his weekly question.

_Got plans this weekend?_

He's reaching for the garage door when his phone buzzes. He swipes, sees the message, and his first thought is confusion. Keith's response is only one word.

 _Yeah_.

Oh. Shiro swallows hard against the disappointment. Right. Keith knows other people, and it's kind of surprising he's never had other plans, if Shiro thinks about it. Shiro hasn't asked, not wanting to demand too much.

But still... They're finally switching to different teams. Over the past week, a tiny hope has been crackling in Shiro's chest: a second chance, obstacles gone. The one-word text mocks him.

He closes the text. Que será, será, dude.

The phone buzzes in Shiro's hand, startling him. Another text from Keith, equally cryptic.

_Ask me again._

Shiro scrubs at the back of his neck, confused. He sets his bag on the bike seat. Maybe Keith's first response was meant for someone else—

The phone buzzes a third time.

_Ask me again._

Shiro stares, baffled. Keith's always to the point, but sometimes mistakes warrant a longer explanation, not a strange demand. With nothing else to go on, he'll take it at face-value. Shiro taps in his rephrased question, and hits send.

_What are you doing this weekend?_

The answer comes back so fast, it's like Keith was waiting.

_You._

A thump sounds behind Shiro. Keith's at the garage door, chest heaving. He's wearing a plain black shirt, black jeans with holes in the knees, and unlaced sneakers. He's got to be freezing, but Shiro can't seem to choke out the words.

"Tell me I'm not wrong," Keith says, urgently. He raises one hand, catching the metal door over his head, reaching for Shiro with the other one. "Tell me you haven't—" He stops, frozen in place, eyes going wide. "Oh, no, you've changed your—"

There's no way Shiro's letting Keith finish that sentence. He tucks his phone in a pocket and catches Keith's hand, stepping forward into Keith, as he pulls Keith against him.

Shiro wraps one arm around Keith's waist; his other hand cradles Keith's jaw, thumb catching at Keith's lower lip as Shiro's mouth descends. Keith's body twists in Shiro's grasp. The metal gate screeches in its track, slamming closed. The timing is perfect, because Shiro has momentum and isn't going to stop.

Keith hits the gate with a slight gasp, swallowed up as Shiro slides his tongue into Keith's mouth. Shiro rolls his hips, heat boiling in his stomach, flooding his system. Keith shoves a leg between Shiro's knee, blatantly riding Shiro's thigh.

Keith's hands are everywhere: under every layer from jacket to sweatshirt to shirt to claw at the small of Shiro's back, then down to grasp Shiro's ass, pulling him in even closer. Keith's hip comes full-force against Shiro's erection, and the pleasure nearly does Shiro in right there.

Shiro breaks the kiss long enough to pant against Keith's cheek. He licks Keith's jaw, bends his head to press his lips against Keith's neck. He bites, gently, smiling against Keith's skin when Keith lets out a whimper. Shiro leans away, mind spinning on too many tracks and all of them involve the words _now_ and _want_ and _keep_. His voice sounds rough in his ears.

"Thought I'd screwed it up," Shiro whispers. "Thought you'd never—"

Keith shoves Shiro back a half-step and grabs Shiro's hand. The prosthesis, not flesh, but Keith doesn't seem to care. Before Shiro can react, Keith has Shiro's hand against Keith's crotch, and there's no mistaking exactly how hard Keith is. Hard enough it's got to hurt. Keith's stare is a challenge, but there's nervousness flickering at the edges.

Shiro tightens his grip, massaging. Keith rocks in time with Shiro's hand, his moan setting Shiro's nerve-endings on fire.

" _Please_." Keith licks his lips. "Here. Over the bike. Anywhere. I don't care. Just now. _Please_."

The words bring Shiro back to reality, though his hand continues to move of its own accord. He doubts he'll ever get enough of feeling the length and girth of Keith's cock through the tight jeans.

"Security cameras," Shiro whispers against Keith's ear.

"I don't—" Keith goes perfectly still, and a second later, his eyes fly open. "Why didn't you _say_ something?" His gaze darts around the small storage area, then up to the corner of the room. He freezes.

"I didn't get a chance?" Shiro grins despite Keith's scandalized expression. "We could, uh, take this upstairs."

Keith shoves Shiro back a step and snatches up his dropped bag. "Stop laughing."

Shiro keeps his other hand on Keith, letting his fingers trail down Keith's body to tangle their fingers together. "Come on." He grabs his own bag, using the motion as excuse to give Keith another quick kiss before ushering him out of the storage area.

 

 

 

Shiro has no idea how he keeps his mind calm, climbing the stairs. Keith's beside him, subdued and wary, but he doesn't let go of Shiro's hand. Shiro digs out his keys and unlocks the door, bumping it open with his hip.

"After you," Shiro says, not sure whether he's playing host or just wanting a chance to enjoy Keith's ass in those skin-tight jeans.

Keith drops his backpack and puts one hand on the wall as he kicks off one shoe, then the other. He's not wearing socks, and he heads into the apartment without looking back. He pulls off his shirt without stopping, and tosses it over the back of the sofa. Shiro yanks off his second boot, remembers to shut the door, and follows, setting his own belongings down on the sofa.

"Did you, uh." Shiro clears his throat, not sure why Keith's standing before the island, hands on his hips. "Want something to drink?"

"Nah." Keith turns to face him, and pushes himself up to sit on the island, knees spread. "Get over here."

"Yeah, but—" Shiro shucks off his leather jacket, then pulls the sweatshirt off. "Are we on a schedule?" He asks through the tangle of fabric.

"Here, then over there, twice," Keith says.

Shiro grunts, trying to catch his shirt so it doesn't get carried off with the sweatshirt. He pauses, realizing, and grins at himself. Just pull it all off. He drops the tangled clothes on the sofa beside Keith's shirt.

"And then I—" Keith stops, suddenly, shoulders hunching.

Shiro hesitates. "Keith?"

"Uh." Keith's staring, outright.

The scars have faded over the years, but they're hardly invisible. Shiro basically went head-first through shattered plastic and metal, and he looks it.

Shiro's not sure whether to apologize or explain. "I know it takes a bit to get used to."

"Yeah," Keith says, strangely reverent.

Shiro braces for whatever decision Keith's made. He can't tell if Keith's gone soft, not with the way the jeans sheath Keith's body. He's too distracted by the way the afternoon sun through the blinds turns Keith's skin to gold.

"Change of plans," Keith says, in that same soft tone.

"Okay," Shiro agrees, ignoring the disappointment shivering in his chest. Maybe he can get the mood back, somehow. Maybe he can force down his own erection so he doesn't make Keith feel awkward. Maybe he can—

Keith hops down, closing the distance to curl a hand over the nape of Shiro's neck. The move tips Shiro forward; their lips mash together, teeth clacking awkwardly. Shiro's eyes drift closed and he tilts his head, opening his mouth, tongue meeting Keith's. He rests his hands on Keith's waist, overcome at the sense of Keith's muscles shifting under sleek skin.

If Keith had seemed desperate in the storage area, he's now ravenous. His fingernails scratch and soothe Shiro's chest in alternating strokes, and the touch makes Shiro shiver uncontrollably. Shiro lets Keith guide him backwards, too busy chasing Keith's tongue to care. He's vaguely aware they've left the living room. Another step or two, and his back's going to hit a wall or his bedroom door.

It's his bedroom door, and Shiro fumbles behind him to push it open. A few more steps and the bed hits the back of his knees. He collapses downward, as Keith climbs up, straddling Shiro's thighs. Shiro lets his hands fall to rest on Keith's knees, feeling laid bare. It doesn't help that Keith's sizing him up, like a butcher taking careful note of exactly where to slice.

"Keith?" Shiro grimaces at the crack in his voice.

Keith's fingers dip into Shiro's jeans, yanking at the buttons. Shiro groans, almost undone at the press of Keith's fingers through the thin cotton boxers. When Keith tugs, Shiro raises his hips up. Keith rides the motion easily, scooting backwards as he pulls Shiro's jeans and boxers down, exposing Shiro's erection.

A cool draft caresses Shiro's skin, one of the drawbacks of an old building. Keith's palm radiates heat, hovering above Shiro's cock, and the contrast makes Shiro gasp. His stomach tightens, his shoulders roll in. He bites his lip to keep from begging.

Keith's hand glides past Shiro's waiting cock, to land on Shiro's stomach, fingers gliding along the grooves as Shiro's stomach flexes involuntarily. Keith leans over, hands sliding up to cup Shiro's chest, thumbs flicking at Shiro's nipples, then his fingers retrace their path, dancing so close—but not touching—Shiro's aching erection.

Oh, to hell with it. "Keith, _please_ ," Shiro says.

"This is really happening." Keith says it so low he might've been talking to himself. His hand catches Shiro's cock, pumping once.

Shiro bucks upwards with a moan, nearly dislodging Keith. The warm hand around his cock is dry, dragging at the skin. It's perfect. It's Keith's hand, and it's perfect. Shiro rocks his hips up again, desperately wanting more.

Keith slides sideways off Shiro, bending down. Shiro raises his head as Keith descends, messy dark hair glancing over Shiro's chest, almost ticklish, and then Keith's mouth is on Shiro's chest. Suckling, nipping, licking, tasting.

Shiro cards his fingers through Keith's hair. He wants to guide Keith, push him towards the center of Shiro's being, but Keith won't be budged.

The bed shakes with Keith's wriggling, and Shiro catches on. He pushes at his own jeans, getting them to his knees, and kicks them down to his ankles. He's got all but one ankle free when Keith's hand catches Shiro's cock. The touch sends Shiro into another delirious jackknife.

"Oh, god," Shiro moans. "Just like that—"

A new sound intrudes, too quick for Shiro to place, but he does know the sensation of a condom being rolled down. The tightness encases him. His stomach tightens, and Keith plants kisses along Shiro's belly.

Then Keith's straddling Shiro, one hand on Shiro's cock, guiding Shiro in.

"Wait, Keith—" Shiro gasps, and he's sliding into Keith. He comes up on his elbow, a wave of panic washing over him. "Wait, you'll get hurt."

Keith pushes the rest of the way down, settling himself down firmly. The constriction, the heat, the slick, it's almost too much. Keith tips his head back, mouth open, then he shifts side to side, seating Shiro deeper within him.

"I won't," Keith whispers, too nonchalant for Shiro's taste. "I stretched before I came over."

"Oh, that's good—" The image catches up with Shiro and he nearly comes from the visual alone. "Oh, god, you _are_ trying to kill me." Shiro covers his face with both hands, not sure whether to laugh at himself or just let the impending orgasm explode already.

"What?" Keith asks, confused. "Is this not—I thought—"

Shiro catches Keith's hips, yanking him back down before he can pull away.

"Don't even," Shiro growls, and bucks his hips, eyes almost crossing from the delicious constriction. "Just—next time you let me watch. Or let me do it."

When Keith leans back, riding the motions, Shiro clasps Keith's cock. He thumbs the tip and has to distract himself with differential equations to keep from coming at the rasp in Keith's choked cry.

Keith coughs, swallows convulsively, and asks in a broken voice, "You'd do it?"

"It's one of my favorite parts." Shiro heaves himself upright. "Next time, don't deny me like that."

"Next time," Keith repeats. His open shock becomes a small smile. Keith slides his arms around Shiro's neck, pressing their foreheads together. "Okay. Next time."

"All the times," Shiro insists. "Come on, move, or I'm flipping you over and doing it myself."

"Pushy," Keith grumbles.

He pushes Shiro down again, and raises himself up. Too slowly, and his fall is abrupt enough to make Shiro's eyes roll back in his head and his hands flail to catch hold of Keith's hips.

Again, slow, testing. Third time, Keith's found his rhythm. Soon he's crying out, open-mouthed, with each move. Shiro can't seem to catch his own breath, but he has the wherewithal to grip Keith's cock, pumping it in countertime with Keith's movements. The touch sends Keith into a frenzy, speed increasing, sweeping Shiro away.

"God, _yes_ ," Shiro growls, orgasm ripping through him.

His back arches, hips driving against Keith's ass. His fingers dig into Keith's hips, holding him in place as Shiro grinds upwards. Keith fumbles for his own cock, but Shiro knocks his hands away. Shiro rocks upwards two, three, four more times, shoving in harder each time until the last of the pulses sweep through him and away.

Shiro relaxes into the bed, gathers his breath, and flips them both over.

The move pulls him out of Keith, who whines softly, still achingly hard. Shiro pushes Keith up the bed, as Shiro slides down. Keith's hands catch at Shiro's shoulders, digging into the muscles, and Shiro lowers his head to Keith's cock. He catches the tip between his lips, swirls his tongue around, and then swallows Keith to the root.

Shiro's throat contracts; he's terribly out of practice. He ignores his body's complaint. He fully intends to get back into practice, immediately.

"Oh!" Keith jerks wildly, one leg coming up.

Shiro gets his hand on Keith's thigh, and pushes Keith's knee almost to his chest, opening Keith wide. With his other hand, he circles Keith's hole—now sweetly loose—and shoves a finger in.

Keith's fingernails dig into Shiro's skin, his inarticulate cries growing louder. Shiro flicks his finger within Keith, twice speed of his tongue pressing against the underside of Keith's cock. The contradiction between the two sends Keith hurtling over the edge.

"I—I'm—I can't—" Keith's back arches as he comes. " _Shiro_!"

Satisfaction sends electrical sparks through Shiro's body like a secondhand orgasm. Keith's leg unfolds, landing on Shiro's back. Keith collapses backwards, breathing ragged. Shiro takes the moment to pull off the condom, tossing it blindly towards the trashcan by his bed.

Shiro crawls up the bed by his elbows until he's hovering above Keith. When Keith merely swallows, wets his lips, and goes back to panting, Shiro laughs under his breath and kisses Keith's neck.

"Mmm," Keith says, one hand coming up to languidly stroke Shiro's shoulders. He coughs, swallows a few more times, then whispers, "You didn't have to do that."

"Do what?" Shiro frowns.

Up to that point, Shiro had thought passing his defense and being called Dr Shirogane for the first time would be the greatest moment of his life. Hearing Keith call his name so helplessly has just shot to the top of the list, leaving behind everything else by a factor of ten. He could become addicted to that sound alone.

Shiro lowers himself down beside Keith, catching Keith by the hips and rolling him towards Shiro. Keith moves sluggishly, making a satisfied sound as Shiro guides him to lay with his head on Shiro's shoulder. Keith's fingers caress Shiro's chest, more exploratory than suggestive.

"Swallow, I mean," Keith whispers.

"I wanted to know how you taste," Shiro says, because it's true. He struggles for a moment to remember if it's ever been true before, and discards the question as irrelevant. It's true with Keith, and that's all that matters.

"Why," Keith says, but without the inflection of a question.

"Why what?"

Shiro scratches an itch on his forehead, amazed he has the coordination to not poke himself in the eye. He yanks at the duvet, grabbing enough to pull it over them. Keith presses closer, his body heat a gentle warmth.

A moment passes, then Keith sighs and pushes at Shiro. It's a half-hearted gesture. "I should leave, I guess."

"Nope." Shiro refuses to let the threat frighten him. Keith's lean, but he's got enough muscle to put up a fight, if he really wanted to be gone.

He's always been the one to do what Keith's suggesting: leave before he gets too comfortable and starts talking. Matt was wrong. It doesn't take ten beers and being hit on the head. It takes affection. Allura taught him first, and the Holts drove the message home, while he lived with them for his year of physical therapy.

Colleen and Sam had both made a point to hug him daily, touch him casually, as though he wasn't some shattered wreck. Before the crash, he'd preferred to get off and get out, instinctively fleeing that vulnerability. After, he rarely bothered. Everything he needed, he'd told himself so many times, he could get from the few people precious to him.

But he's had four months—no, almost seven, really—of Keith's friendship. Enough to know that if he says something stupid, it can't be worse than what he's said before. Enough to know that if he reveals his fractures, Keith will neither reject him nor try to fix him. Every small window he's opened to let Keith see inside, Keith has returned tenfold.

"We have at least six more rounds, by my count." Shiro's getting hard again, anyway, just from Keith's breath against his skin.

"Six?" Keith's voice holds a mild frown.

"For today. And then again tomorrow." Shiro's too giddy to care if he sounds the fool. "And then the day after, and the day after that."

Keith snorts. "Not possible."

"I believe your theory requires testing," Shiro says, in his best work voice.

"Pidge is right." Keith's fingers dig into Shiro's side. "You really are a dork."

"Hey!" Shiro yelps as Keith hits Shiro's one ticklish spot. "Watch it."

He catches Keith's hand, pulling it up to his mouth to press his lips against Keith's knuckles. He tucks Keith's hand under his chin, and cranes his neck to see his alarm clock.

"What is it?" Keith isn't dislodged by the motion, and his voice is slowing.

"Little after six," Shiro says. "Rest a bit, then figure out dinner? I'm no Thai restaurant, but the few things I can make, I'm very reliable at."

Keith's lips curve against Shiro's skin. After a moment, Keith wriggles, but he's not getting free, just moving down a bit. Shiro lets him, startled when Keith finds a nipple and begins to suck. Soft, then hard. Electricity arcs through Shiro's body, pinging back and forth to come together at his rapidly-stiffening cock.

"Oh, god," Shiro moans, pressing his chest upwards into Keith's mouth. "I'll give you a hundred years to stop that."

Keith lets go with a soft pop. "A hundred years?"

"Or the rest of my life, whichever is longer." Shiro raises his head. "You stopped. Means it's my turn."

He rolls over, carrying Keith with him. A quick shift gets his arms under Keith's knees, hoisting Keith's legs up, as Shiro brings his full weight down between Keith's legs. The move presses their cocks together, prompting a low groan from Shiro and a breathless whine from Keith. Shiro grinds against Keith, and Keith's cock stiffens. Keith arches up, reaching for Shiro, fingertips pressing into Shiro's shoulders.

Somehow Shiro has the presence of mind to pause. "Can I—" He lowers his head, bringing his palms to press against Keith's ribs. "Please—"

"Yeah," Keith says, in an oddly churlish tone. "Come on!" He rocks his hips up, wiping Shiro's brain again.

"Okay." Shiro has to take a second to remember what he'd been about to do. "Hold onto me."

Shiro twists them around on the bed so he can reach for the drawer in his bedside table without letting go of Keith. It's been awhile, but he's pretty sure the condoms aren't too old. It's torture, touching himself to roll the condom on, and he can't remember every being so sensitive, before. It's much worse that he has to let go of Keith to do it.

He lowers himself again, chest thrumming when Keith reaches for him with a smile.

Keith catches hold of Shiro's upper arms and curls up, almost bending in half to press his face against Shiro's chest. Soft kisses across Shiro's skin, and Keith latches onto Shiro's other nipple. It's startling, the way Keith's mouth makes Shiro's body spark. He's never paid attention to his erogenous zones before. Or maybe they simply didn't exist before Keith.

Shiro supports Keith's head with one hand, and pulling Keith's hips upwards with the other. Second time around, Keith's still loose. He must've used half a bottle of lube to still be dripping. Shiro slides in with a pleased groan, settling Keith's legs over his shoulder. Keith's fingers dig into Shiro's arms as Shiro thrusts. Sharp, hard enough to make their flesh slap.

The build is slower, this time, though Shiro doesn't try to make it last. He doesn't want Keith sore, though walking awkwardly tomorrow is probably inevitable. Keith is a live wire beneath him, writhing with each thrust, head back, eyes squeezed shut. His moans start soft, growing as Shiro picks up the pace.

There's no getting a hand between their bodies. Shiro cants his body, pressing into Keith, trying to give Keith more friction. It makes the angle of entry suddenly twice as tight, and Shiro groans, overcome, whens the orgasm finally hits. His thrusts turn erratic, hips jerking as the waves of pleasure crash through his body.

Beneath him, Keith moans something inaudible, grinding upwards. Keith's cry trails off into a long keening sound, and his ass spasms as he also comes. Shiro chokes out Keith's name, overwhelmed by the pulsing, vise-like sensation. It feels like Keith's wringing an echoing orgasm from him.

Keith's legs slide off Shiro's shoulders, and Shiro's arms give way. He crashes down, barely breaking his fall in time. The shift pulls him from Keith's ass, and Shiro doesn't even have the energy to deal with the condom, or the stickiness between them. His head ends up on Keith's shoulder, and Shiro exhales, sliding his arms beneath Keith to embrace him around the waist.

Shiro nuzzles at Keith's chest. Keith's quiet huff is an amused, tired laugh; his fingers thread through Shiro's hair, touch growing heavier, then still. Shiro listens to Keith's heartbeat slowing to a more even pace, and smiles to himself. He untangles himself and slips free. Keith mumbles something and Shiro shushes him with a kiss, then stumbles into the bathroom to strip off the condom and wet down a washcloth.

His knees are rubbery, forcing him to catch the wall to keep his balance. Shiro staggers back to the bed and wipes Keith off, then himself, and tosses the washcloth over his shoulder. It either landed in the hamper or not, but he'll worry about that later.

Shiro rolls Keith over to get the duvet out from under him, then climbs in beside Keith, pulling the covers over them. A minute later, Shiro rolls over on his back, amazed when Keith follows, even in sleep. Satisfied, body buzzing too much to question his good fortune, Shiro wraps his arms around Keith and drifts off into a light doze.

 

 

 

Shiro digs around in his dresser drawer set aside for workout and weekend clothes. "I have sweatpants, if you want to borrow them."

"I'm fine," Keith says, busy shaking out his jeans and putting them on.

"Alright." Shiro shoves his boxers down a bit to scratch at his hip, and considers.

Jeans, then. He sets a pair on the bed without looking, and wanders into his closet. His oldest dark gray henley. He steps out of the closet, about to put the shirt on, and stops. The bed is made, but there are no jeans on it.

"Didn't I put a pair of jeans on the—" Shiro frowns. "Why does it look like one pillow is taller than the other?"

"It's nothing," Keith says. "And take that shirt off."

"What?" Shiro lowers the shirt, baffled. "Are we going out somewhere? What's wrong with this shirt?"

"Nothing." Keith leans against the footboard, arms crossed. "Just look better with it off."

Startled, Shiro lets the laugh cover for his embarrassment. " _You're_ wearing clothes."

Keith glances down at himself, shrugs, and pulls off the shirt. He undoes his jeans and steps out of them, stark naked. Shiro's brain does another one of those detail-noting jolts. Keith doesn't wear underwear. Good to know.

"Gonna see what's in your fridge," Keith says, and walks out with all the confidence of a man dressed in the latest fashion.

Shiro's about to call after Keith that he'd prefer being dressed, when he realizes the trade Keith's offering. If wearing only boxers is the way to enjoy Keith being naked, maybe it's time Shiro considered moving out of his comfort zone.

He finds Keith in the kitchen, crouched before the open fridge door, poking through the vegetable drawer. Shiro leans against the counter, enjoying the view just as much as it makes his heart pound. This seems impossible, yet it's happening. The dizzying contradiction has him at a loss.

"I can make omelets." Shiro ticks off the list. "Spaghetti. Mashed potatoes. Baked chicken. Pumpkin pie, but I don't have the makings, so ignore that. Also Osaka-style ramen. Recipes for all but the last two are on the door."

"No frozen dinners?" Keith stands up. "What's Osaka-style ramen?"

Shiro leans past Keith to get the eggs, and it seems natural to rest his hand on Keith's hip. Keith leans back to close the fridge door, and ends up leaning against Shiro.

"We'll need the pot with the taller edges." Shiro opens the spice rack, pulling down the supplies from the local Asian grocer. He's almost out. "Cabinet under the stove."

"Cookpot," Keith says, finding it.

Keith is attentive, much more than Pidge or Matt, as Shiro walks him through the simple steps of Shiro's favorite childhood dish. It's a true comfort food: poached egg yolks still runny, noodles swimming in salt and flavor, chopped bacon rounding out the broth.

Shiro finds every excuse he can to touch Keith. A hand on the hip, or the small of Keith's back. A glancing touch along the arm, or standing too close. Once or twice he dares to bend down and kiss Keith, too quickly for Keith to reciprocate. He knows there's no rational reason, but he can't quite shove down the fear that he wants this far more than Keith.

After dinner, Shiro lingers over cleaning up, worried the evening's end will mean Keith's departure. He has to stifle the rueful laugh when Keith beats him to it. He should know better by now: Keith is too blunt to hold back for long.

"Are you going to kick me out, now?" Keith throws a sidelong look at Shiro, then bends his head to studiously rinsing out the ramen bowl. He hands it to Shiro to dry.

"Kickout hours are between six a.m. and eight a.m. on Mondays," Shiro says, somehow keeping his expression neutral. He can't claim credit for the wit, though. It's Matt's line.

By some unspoken agreement, they end up on the sofa. Shiro leans against the arm, one leg spread out. Keith sits beside him, then leans sideways until he's draped over Shiro's leg, chin on Shiro's stomach.

"Your chin is too pointy," Shiro complains. "Get up here." He tugs Keith upwards, and slides down at the same time, until his head's on the arm and Keith's head is on his chest.

"What is that sound?" Keith asks. "It's quiet. Is there a bee in your apartment?"

Shiro listens, head cocked. "I don't hear anything." He shrugs at Keith's raised brows. "I'm amazed you still have eardrums, as much as you flew."

"Civilians have this thing called ear protection," Keith observes, dryly. "I think the sound's coming from your bag."

"Hunh." Shiro bends down, reaching for his bag, under the coffee table.

He could make Keith get up, but he doesn't want to, so he ends up halfway off the sofa before he can catch hold of the strap and pull it towards him. A hand in the bag and he knows the culprit.

"Phone. I forgot to turn it off vibrate when I got home." Shiro swipes the screen and whistles. "Hold on, I think I need to take this."

Matt's tried to call him nine times. And texted him another ten times.

"Something wrong?" Keith asks, worried. "Should I—"

"Stay right there," Shiro says. "It's my brother. And…" He scrolls through the texts. "I guess you would've won that bet, after all. Pidge missed her flight."

"There was a big pileup on I-95," Keith says.

Shiro hums, noncommital, and hits the button to return Matt's call. Matt answers on the first ring.

"Shiro! Where the _fuck_ have you been? Do you know what the fuck that gremlin's done? Tell me you're on the next flight out here!"

Shiro leans away from the phone. Even with his mild hearing damage, he can hear Matt loud and clear. From Keith's raised brows, Keith caught all that, too. Shiro waits for Matt to take a breath.

"I've been occupied," Shiro says. "Why'd Pidge miss her flight? She left with plenty of—"

"She was sucking face in the parking lot," Matt barks. "Some guy! I don't know the details, she didn't even call me. She called Dad to run interference. Coward! I thought we taught her better than that!"

On impulse, Shiro checks his phone, unable to suppress a grin. He flips the phone around to show Keith, who buries his face in Shiro's chest to muffle the laugh. Pidge had texted Shiro first, probably around the time Keith was busy thoroughly scrambling Shiro's brains.

"That means you're all that's left to help me." Matt's tone turns wheedling. "I checked, there's a flight at five tomorrow morning—"

"Nope," Shiro says, implacable. "You get ahold of Pidge and arrange with her. I can't make it."

The silence is deafening, broken only by a strange choking sound.

"You're… busy?" Matt asks, suddenly rerouted from his previous fury. "Like, busy tonight? And tomorrow?"

"And Sunday, too." Shiro knows his heart just skipped at least two beats from his brazen assumption. He glances down to see Keith's expression turn speculative. Shiro leans his head back, free hand running fingers up and down Keith's spine. "Sorry."

"Wow." Matt takes a second to register, then startles Shiro with a loud whoop.

Shiro jerks the phone away just in time. Keith looks up, edging along Shiro's body, and lowers his head to kiss Shiro's chest. Shiro shifts to give Keith the room, mostly focused on diverting Matt from the gossip and back to the question of getting Pidge to the airport.

"She's not answering her phone, though," Matt grumbles. "Are you sure you can't ride over there and shove the phone in her face?"

"I'd put that in the only in dire circumstances column," Shiro says. "Besides, her plane ticket's probably about the cost of getting everything professionally moved. We can just split the cost three ways."

"Four ways," Matt says. "Pidge owes half for ditching me."

"Go easy on her." Shiro eases back into the role of peacemaker. "She's had it rough the past few months."

Keith's lips descend on Shiro's right nipple, sucking gently. Pleasure sparks down Shiro's nerves, straight to his cock. Jokes aside, three times in a twelve-hour period seems impossible. No reason not to try. His body's reacting slowly, between the previous times and a full stomach, but when Keith shifts to latch around Shiro's other nipple… there's a definite reaction.

"Uh, Matt," Shiro says. "I think I need to go."

"Oh, really," Matt says, suspicious. "Are you busy right now? While you're talking to me? Bro. You know I'd never do that to you."

"I'm not! But—really," Shiro says, half-laughing.

Keith tilts his chin up, heavy-lidded, lips curled up at the edges, mouth still locked onto Shiro's chest. Shiro pushes Keith's head back down, and raises his other leg to lock Keith in place.

"Seriously," Shiro says, voice cracking. The phone is shaking against his ear.

"Go," Matt orders, laughing.

The line goes dead. Shiro tosses the phone onto the bag without looking, catches Keith under the arms, and yanks him upwards. Keith's grin widens, and he lands on Shiro with a quiet grunt. His mouth is on Shiro's immediately, tongue pushing into Shiro's mouth, a wild tangle of flavors of ramen broth and bacon and Keith.

Shiro groans into the kiss, sliding his hands down to grasp Keith's bare ass. It's perfect, fitting in his hands just right. Keith grinds downwards, and Shiro has no idea how Keith can be fully hard again. Shiro lets his head fall back with a groan.

"I don't think I have it in me," he admits, catching a longer strand of Keith's bangs and tucking it behind Keith's ear. "God, I want to, but I might need a bit more recovery time."

"Yeah." Keith lays his head on Shiro's chest, smile falling away.

"I didn't say I needed a nap," Shiro says. "Raise up, just a bit."

Keith looks baffled, but he rises up on his hands and knees. Shiro puts his arms over his head, getting a hold on the sofa arm, and shoves himself down. Keith's erection is red, wet at the tip, and within reach.

Shiro wraps his arms around Keith's waist, guiding him. Keith moans as his cock slides into Shiro's mouth. There's no way Shiro's going to be able to go deep, not while on his back. Keith's going to have to do the work; his thrusts are shallow at first, uncertain. Shiro hums in his throat, encouraging.

Keith drops his head, eyes closed. His panting's broken every few thrusts as Keith swallows, licks his lips. The pleasure is all over Keith's face. That alone almost brings Shiro's cock back to life. Not quite, but close.

Shiro sets that aside; he'd rather focus on Keith, anyway. He runs his hands up Keith's ribs and across to find Keith's nipples. Small, blush-pink, pebbled. Shiro runs fingertips back and forth, and on impulse, plucks them, then pinches them.

Keith's startled moan is almost a shout. He thrusts, fast and hard, fucking Shiro's mouth in earnest.

Shiro rolls Keith's nipples between his fingers, entranced by the tension rippling through Keith's body. Shiro squeezes, hard, and Keith cries out, cock convulsing. Shiro almost chokes, easing back just enough to be able to swallow.

Keith's arms give way, and Shiro catches him. Keith's eyes are still closed, but he wears an open smile, with something close to amazement, maybe. Shiro works his way back up the sofa, and Keith settles down on top of him again.

"Everything okay?" Shiro asks.

Keith mumbles something, and pats Shiro's arm, an absent gesture. 

Shiro teases a strand of hair out of Keith's face. He doesn't mean to fish for compliments, but it's been awhile. What makes it worse is he has no idea if he'd know for certain that what he feels is shared.

"Actually," Shiro says, gingerly, "I didn't mean to make you feel like you had to stay. I'll understand if you have somewhere you need to be."

Keith raises his head, eyes wide. His gaze drops away, and he nods, sitting up.

Shiro can almost hear Allura yelling at him, across the distance. He takes a deep breath, and takes the leap. "But I don't want you to leave." A strange shiver passes through Shiro's chest, like wind curling through his ribcage.

"I didn't bring any clothes," Keith says. "And my laptop... I've got homework." He makes a face.

"Oh, right. School should come first." That quivering sensation passes through him again.

Keith's smile is crooked. He levers himself up and trots off to the bedroom; a count of twenty and he's back, fully dressed. Shiro leans against the sofa, crossing his arms, feeling self-conscious.

"Okay." Keith slips into his sneakers and picks up his backpack. "I guess… I'll call you?"

"Sure." Shiro nods. "I'll be here." He leaves off, _waiting_. He refuses to be that pathetic.

The door shuts behind Keith, and Shiro stares for a moment, resisting the urge to punch himself in the head. He should've tried for a goodnight kiss, at the very least.

Five minutes later, he's walking out of the bedroom, jeans unbuttoned but on. He pulls the gray henley over his head, startling at a sudden pounding on his door. Shiro throws it open, stunned to find Keith standing there.

"I think I left my phone here." Keith looks completely serious, except for the wrinkle in his brows.

"Is this going to be a regular thing?" Shiro buttons his jeans up, noting the way Keith's eyes drop to Shiro's crotch.

"Maybe," Keith says, tongue darting out to lick his lips. He's about to speak when a shrill chirping sounds from his bag. His eyes go wide, and almost instantly, his cheeks turn bright pink.

"Amazing," Shiro asks, deadpan. "Maybe I should go with you. Make you don't leave yourself somewhere, too."

"Maybe you should." Keith's grin turns rueful, as the phone rings again. "That would've worked a lot better if I'd remembered to silence it."


	9. Chapter 9

Shiro's surprised to discover Keith lives in the building behind his. Something Keith hadn't discovered until after he'd signed the lease, and came to Shiro's for the housewarming.

Shiro leans against Keith's bedroom window while Keith packs enough for at least four days. Keith seems to go by the rule of controlled clutter. Minimal furniture, a single futon on the floor, and the rest of his belongings collected into random piles, some by the bed, some in the living room.

Shiro stares at the lights in the darkness outside Keith's bedroom window, suddenly realizing where he knows them from. It's the alley. Keith wouldn't have even needed to look; he would've heard the Harley's roar, announcing Shiro's arrival. So that was how he knew where Shiro was, to come right to him, that afternoon—or how he'd arrived so quickly, that night with Pidge.

The walk back in the November darkness is quiet; Keith's arms are full of his textbooks and his laptop case. Shiro carries the duffel bag. At his apartment door, Shiro unlocks the door, then stops Keith.

"Don't ever let me let you leave again without this," Shiro says, bending down for a kiss.

He means to keep it chaste, but Keith catches Shiro's collar and pulls him closer. They shuffle into the apartment, bump against the wall, and don't stop kissing until Shiro has to break free to unlace his boots. Keith leaves his school stuff on the table, hesitates for a second, then carries his other bag into the bedroom.

Shiro sets the tea kettle on. A quiet footstep warns him; he turns to see Keith leaning against the sofa, phone to his ear, his half of the conversation consisting of _unh-hunh_ and _yeah_ and _hunh_. His shirt's off, jeans half-unbuttoned, and there's just enough dark curly hair visible in the opening to curl Shiro's toes with the memories.

Keith catches Shiro staring at him, and pointedly looks Shiro up and down. Shiro checks the blinds; they're still closed, and the lighting's low, anyway. He steels himself, and pulls off his shirt, unbuttons his jeans and steps out of them. Then he drops the boxers, too. It's a little easier now that the only light is a lamp by the sofa, and the little light over the stove.

Keith's eyes go wide. "Mom," he says. "Love you, gotta go." He clicks off the phone, tosses it onto the sofa, and meets Shiro halfway, arms tangling around Shiro's neck.

"Did you just hang up on your mother?" Shiro asks.

"She'll get over it." Keith pushes himself up along Shiro, angling for a kiss.

Keith's phone rings three times, and Keith freezes, listening. The phone goes silent and Keith relaxes. His lips are a half-inch from Shiro's when the phone rings again.

"Doesn't sound like she's getting over it," Shiro says. "You should probably answer that."

Keith lets his forehead fall against Shiro's shoulder. "Yeah."

 

 

 

Shiro puts his jeans back on and does his best not to listen to Keith's phone conversation, though Keith still isn't saying much. Shiro grabs a book from his shelves, sets a cup of tea down before Keith, and kisses Keith on the top of his head. Shiro gathers up the discarded clothes and points the book at the bedroom to let Keith know.

A half-hour later, Keith joins him, looking glum.

"What's wrong?" Shiro closes the book and sets it aside.

"My mom's not happy." Keith flops down on his stomach next to Shiro. "She's worried you're going to convince me to enlist."

"I don't—" Shiro blinks. "Well, that explains a lot."

"Like what?" Keith rolls over on his side, waiting until Shiro raises his arm, making a space. Keith slides in, head pillowed on Shiro's lap.

"I don't think she likes me. Or approves of me," Shiro admits. "We sort of exchanged… _words_ , at one point. It got a little tense. Sorry."

Keith raises his head, openly astonished, and looks Shiro over. "And you're still in one piece?"

"I said tense, not bloody." Shiro knows Keith's mother is an instructor at a military academy about three hours' drive away, but that's it. "Out of curiosity, what exactly does your mother do?"

"She teaches hand-to-hand combat." Keith lays his head back down. "And knife-fighting."

"Lucky for us both that I'm intact, then." Shiro flexes his right arm. His reflexes are dulling, which means time for a night without it. "Speaking of which, it's probably time to be less intact for a bit."

"Oh." Keith sits up. "Can I help?"

Shiro's shocked speechless. In his limited exposure, most have pointedly looked away, or pretended—and failed—to be casual. Two just acted as though his arm didn't exist. But Keith's reaching out, hands open, and Shiro automatically lays his prosthetic hand in Keith's.

"Hold on, I need to undo the clasp." Shiro unlocks the piece that fits around his bicep, exhaling in relief as it gives way. He sets it aside, and undoes the revealed snaps. "Okay, it should give way, now."

Keith tugs. "It's not."

"Barometer pressure must be up. Or maybe the humidity? Sometimes I just have to yank."

"Got it." Keith jerks hard enough that not only does the arm come off, Keith loses his balance and falls backwards with a yelp.

"Sorry!" Shiro grins. "Need a hand with that?"

"Thanks, I've got one." Keith waves the prosthesis, and catches Shiro's offered hand, pulling himself upright. "This is really cool." He curls the fingers up, then straightens them, and sets the arm aside. "How about the fabric?"

"It's the worst part, actually." Shiro begins pushing down the sock, rolling it off him.

"Need a hand?" Keith chuckles, moving to sit on his heels between Shiro's legs.

He unrolls the sock, gently, brows down in concentration as one by one the sensors release from Shiro's skin. When the fabric's removed, Keith frowns at the fretwork of little dots and lines imprinted in Shiro's skin.

"Does it hurt?" Keith asks.

"Itches, mostly."

"Can I?" Keith holds up his hands, not quite touching.

Shiro nods, awed when Keith takes the arm between his hands, massaging gently. He starts at the upper arm, working his way down. After a moment, Keith lets go. "I'll be right back." He launches himself off the bed, tearing out of the room, back almost immediately with a bottle of lotion from the bathroom. Keith slathers a dollop on his hands, and gets to work. Shiro can only stare at the top of Keith's head, torn between enjoying the sensation of being touched, and waiting for the agonizing moment where he'll wake from the dream.

A third helping of the lotion and Keith makes himself comfortable between Shiro's legs with his back to Shiro. He's down to the forearm and the stump just above Shiro's wrist. His thumbs are doing most of the work, sweeping firm moves that make Shiro's skin tingle and his muscles feel heavy. Shiro slides his free arm around Keith's waist, urging Keith to lean backwards, Shiro's stump resting on Keith's thigh. Keith is down to the very end, fingers soothing another palmful of lotion into the skin until it tingles, coming awake.

"Thank you," Shiro says, when Keith finishes.

He tightens the muscles and relaxes them, and for a moment he can feel a fist clenching, fingers curled against his palm. He blinks and the sensation passes, with a dart of pain up his arm. He must've tensed, because Keith wraps his hands around Shiro's stump, gently, and pulls it towards Keith's stomach until Shiro is embracing him from behind. Keith sighs and leans back, turning his head so his forehead is against Shiro's neck.

"Truth is," Shiro admits, "I thought your mother hadn't expected your skills, and had changed her mind about you enlisting."

"Mom?" Keith laughs, a short bark. "What gave you that idea?"

Shiro grins, rueful, and explains what he'd overheard in the salad line. Keith goes still in Shiro's arms. Curious, Shiro cranes his neck to see, but Keith makes a point of keeping his face hidden.

"What's wrong?" Shiro asks.

Keith makes a choking sound. "Nothing."

"I thought we agreed on honesty."

"Yeah, but... " Keith shrugs. "Mom was just being… Mom."

Shiro can't help but tease, anyway. "I didn't mean to be nosy, it just seemed like you had a pretty strong reaction to whatever she said."

His words startle an embarrassed cough out of Keith, who rolls over to lie on his stomach, head tucked under Shiro's chin. Shiro keeps his hold loose enough for the movement, lowering his arms again once Keith has gotten comfortable. Maybe Keith will explain, maybe it's better to drop the topic. Shiro's content feeling Keith's body against his, and let Keith decide where the conversation will go, next.

"She was just teasing me," Keith whispers. "For the first few years it was… we never seemed to be on the same page. Took work and sometimes we still don't read each other very well."

"Mm," Shiro says, running fingers up and down Keith's spine.

"She didn't know what was going on, so she jumped to conclusions." Keith's shrug is more a hint of muscles rippling under his skin. "I wish you'd been able to join us for lunch, then I wouldn't have spent the hour with her convinced I'm in love or something." He laughs, softly, against Shiro's chest.

Shiro somehow keeps his fingers moving, as his heart skips at least three beats and flies into a frantic patter. The thrumming in his chest is as light and quick as Keith's eyelashes brushing Shiro's skin. Warmth spreads through Shiro's body, hope leading the way.

Keith sighs. "Didn't mean to weird you out. Mom can be terribly blunt. She's so deadpan it's hard to tell when she's actually joking."

"Oh." Shiro can't quite bring himself to say everything threatening to spill out. "Your mom's impression was probably my fault. I mean, you are..." He backs out at the last second, knowing he's sidling up to the truth sideways. "The kind of person I could fall in love with."

Keith's laugh is short and skeptical. "You don't have to say that."

"I know."

Keith falls quiet. He'd held his arms close, hands on Shiro's chest. He wriggles, and Shiro leans up enough for Keith to get his arms around Shiro in return.

"But you are," Shiro says.

Keith lifts his head to look Shiro in the eyes. His gaze drops to Shiro's chest, wandering across the tangled white lines of Shiro's scars, and back up to Shiro's face. Maybe it'd be best for Shiro to hold still, let Keith assess at his own speed, but Shiro can't leave it like that. He raises a hand, brushing Keith's hair out of his face, and trails his fingers down Keith's jaw.

"Maybe even..." Shiro loses his nerve for a heartbeat. He's cut open, ten times worse than any crash site or surgical table. "Someone I might be falling in love with."

Keith opens his mouth, closes it, and averts his gaze with a nervous chuckle. "Why would—that can't—" He pulls back, sitting up, and Shiro lets him go. Keith's mouth is a firm line, and he scoots back to sit between Shiro's knees. "It's not possible."

Shiro's first reaction is a flicker of annoyance; he'll decide for himself how he feels. Quick after that comes anguish, tempered with resignation; he knows his flaws too well to think he'd ever be someone's prize. It's petty to expect someone contradict him, just to soothe his ego. Shiro nods, a bit curtly, but Keith isn't even looking at him.

"Just." Keith frowns. "You're _you_. You should be with…" He trails off with another shrug.

Shiro can think of a hundred different replies, from self-protective humor to an outright defensive attack. He settles for the simplest, because it's the truth. "I don't understand," he says.

"Uh." Keith scrubs at his face, and scoots back farther, enough to cross his legs.

Shiro takes the hint and pulls his legs up as well. One leg bent, the other hanging off the edge of the bed. He resists the urge to grab a pillow and hug it, knowing the message it'd send. He just has to hold it together through whatever Keith say. His chest can wait to crack open once he's alone again.

"I kinda didn't take the job entirely because of the salary, though I can't complain about that." Keith rests his elbows on his knees, staring into the bedroom's dark corners. "I, uh. My fourth interview..."

The pause drags on, and Shiro prompts him with, "The one where you did the piloting tests?"

"No, that was the second one." Keith's smile is quicksilver.

He'd told Shiro the details during one of their Thai thursday dinners. Thirty-some interviewees, all over thirty-five by Keith's estimate. All commercial or military pilots, most of them retired. And then Keith, ten years younger, so out of place, with the bad luck of going first. The simulation team had chosen a Mosquito, an older warbird design that had become one of the standards for any pilot's training, civilian or military. It was also what Keith flew on a near-daily basis. He'd walked out of the simulator to find half the applicants had left after seeing his scores.

"The fourth interview was another half-day event," Keith says. "Standing in the hallway, waiting for an open room, and… someone who looked like he'd stepped off the cover of a magazine. Walking with execs, had to be important himself, I knew. And then he smiled and I—"

Keith clears his throat and swings his legs over to hang off the bed. The bedside lamp burnishes Keith's profile in a golden glow, and Keith scrubs his palms on his jeans.

"I'd interviewed mostly to humor Lance, but that changed my mind—I know it's the stupidest reason—" He breaks off with a frustrated huff. "The most gorgeous man walked right past me, and I thought, if I could pass that person in the hall every morning and they smiled, just for me, I'd never ask for more."

Shiro is still trying to figure out the context. Keith raises his head, jerking back slightly at what Shiro too late realizes must appear a frown. He tries to modulate, but Keith's already looking away.

"Hunk told me the team was him, and Lance, and a programmer, and another person just starting. Someone they'd worked for months to get. A former fighter pilot, retired, got a doctorate, published some books, went into teaching. Hunk tried explaining something the guy had written and truth is, I was lost at _the paper's about_. I figured, another old guy. Tweed jacket."

"And a pipe?" Shiro says, embarrassed but amused, too. He's heard those jokes before.

"Definitely not a Harley," Keith agrees.

"Sorry to disappoint," Shiro says, only half-joking.

He's not sure how he feels about any of this. It doesn't help to see emotions flashing across Keith's face. Hurt and surprise, maybe amusement, to settle on something akin to exasperation.

"You asked me out," Keith bursts out. "That's what you meant, my first day, right? I know I don't always catch the social cues—was I wrong?"

Startled, Shiro shakes his head, then nods, not sure which he's supposed to answer. Keith's mouth is an angry line.

"I couldn't believe it—then I find out we're on the same team—and you—of _course_ you were seeing someone." Keith's tone turns bitter. "Probably just as gorgeous and smart—and then there's me, and all _I_ wanted was for you to smile at me. _That's_ why I took the job—to see you in the hallway—god, I'm so pathetic." He groans, dropping his head in his hands, covering his face. "Why was I even _hired_? You could do everything I've done, blindfolded. I know you're so far out of my league you might as well be—I just—you don't have to say things you don't mean—all I want—"

Keith claps his hands over his mouth, stifling whatever else was about to spill forth. It's possibly the most he's ever said in one long tumbling pass of words. Belatedly, the meaning clicks into place.

"Wait, wait," Shiro's jaw drops. "The guy in the hallway—with the execs—you mean _me_?"

Keith shoots Shiro an irritated glare, and it's Shiro's turn to wipe a hand over his face. He sees himself in the mirror every morning after his shower and every night before bed. Not once has he ever seen himself—nor has anyone else—as anything like Keith's description.

"I don't know what—" Shiro waves his stump, not sure whether he's brushing off Keith's words or just gesturing wildly. Not that he has a hand to do that with. He gives up with a disconcerted laugh. "No one's ever called me gorgeous before. I'm not sure how to react."

That gets Keith's attention, and for a moment he just looks Shiro up and down with a strange curl to his brow. Abruptly Keith snorts, previous mortification replaced with open disbelief.

"How did you ever get a motorcycle license if you're that blind," Keith says, flatly.

Shiro winces, too rattled to manage a response.

"Sorry." Keith's shoulders slump. "I didn't mean to just unload like that on you. I, uh. I'll understand if you want me to leave. I kinda killed the mood—"

"I'll unkill it." Shiro reaches out—remembering in time to use his left hand—and catches Keith's arm. "Please don't leave." When Keith stiffens, Shiro lets go. "I don't want you to leave."

Keith settles his weight back down, but something in him is poised for flight.

"I saw you," Shiro says, desperate to fill the silence. "In the hallway, after that exec meeting started. You were outside the glass."

Keith's eyes go wide.

"Allura even elbowed me about being distracted," Shiro admits. "Your first day, I have no idea how I managed to even speak coherently. Here's the most beautiful man I've ever seen, and he smiled at me—what was I supposed to do? I was tap-dancing, hoping you'd notice me and honestly, not sure what I'd do if you did."

It's hard to tell in the lamplight, but Keith's cheeks seem to darken.

"When you said we'd be friends—" Shiro sighs. No point holding back, now. "I spent so many nights trying to convince myself that'd be enough. Until Kolivan said—"

"I know," Keith breaks in. There's no mistaking the flush on his cheeks. "He told me."

"It was the first time I'd entertained the thought you might feel the same. I realized I—well, I did a horrible job hiding my reaction. Oh, to hell with it." Shiro can't take anymore. He scoots forward, not quite touching, but he has to close the distance, somehow. "Even with so much at stake, even knowing the risks, I didn't want to be your friend anymore."

Keith's inhale is sharp, startled and hurt.

"No, I mean—" Shiro forces himself to slow down, think through his words. He can't screw this up. "I cherish your friendship, but I wanted more. I want more. I want _everything_. I won't be just friends. I can't be. It's too late. I can barely make it through Sundays, not seeing you or talking to you—"

Keith's perfectly still, mouth open.

Shiro gives up trying to think ahead, and just lets the words spill out. "I want you here in the morning, I want to see you at lunch, I want to be here when you get home, I want to feel you beside me all night. I honestly never meant to have this happen but—"

His brain sends warnings; Shiro can practically feel the red alert status. He shoves everything else aside, focused on Keith's eyes, wide and shining from behind the fall of messy bangs.

"I wasn't entirely honest before," Shiro says. "I'm not _maybe_  falling in love with you."

A flicker across Keith's face, a tightening around his eyes.

"There's no _maybe_ about it," Shiro says. "I _am_  in love with you."

The only movement from Keith is his mouth, and the barest whisper of breath, forming Shiro's name.

"It's alright if you're not, I know this is coming out of nowhere for you." This is it; there's no coming back from this. "But if you did, if you could—"

"I love you," Keith says.

"I promise I'd do my—" Shiro stops, blinking. "What?"

"I think," Keith adds. He frowns, contemplative. "I've never been in love before. My mom's talked about meeting my dad, Antok told me about meeting Kolivan. I made a list and it all matches, so that's the simplest explanation."

"There's a list… that matches?" Shiro scrambles to catch up, hardly daring to breathe.

"Yes." Keith's mouth curls up at one end, a tentative thing. "It feels right. To say it."

"It does?"

"Yeah." Keith raises a hand, runs his fingers down Shiro's cheek, cups his jaw. "I love you."

Shiro's smile runs through all of him, deep enough to make his toes curl. He's too dizzy to care if he sounds witless. "You do?"

Keith grins. "Yeah." He plants a close-mouthed kiss on Shiro's lips, pulls away enough to lick his lips, then runs his tongue along Shiro's bottom lip.

Shiro has to swallow twice before he can ask, "Is this really happening?"

"That's my line," Keith says, and kisses him again.

 

 

 

Shiro wakes when his alarm goes off, and he reaches blindly, smacking the top until it shuts up. Keith's head is pillowed on Shiro's shoulder, drooling a little down Shiro's chest. Shiro grins and raises his head to view the damage to his bedroom.

Keith's jeans ended up on the dresser, while Shiro's clothes missed the hamper. The third pillow is on the floor on Shiro's side of the bed, and the duvet appears to be sideways.

"Hunh," Keith mumbles, the rest of his words lost against Shiro's skin.

"We don't have to get up." Shiro grimaces. Morning wood, but it's mostly because he has to piss. "Well, I do, but I'll be right back."

Shiro prods Keith off and climbs out of bed, grinning when Keith grunts, rolls over, and does a face plant into Shiro's pillow. In the bathroom, Shiro lingers, and decides to brush his teeth, too. Morning breath is far worse than morning wood.

"Hey." Keith stumbles in, yawning, then ducks out again. He returns with a frown. "I forgot my toothbrush."

Shiro pauses in brushing to pull open the right-hand drawer in the bathroom cabinet. "Pick one." It's where he keeps everything for guests.

Keith digs through, choosing a red toothbrush and ripping open the package. He pokes at the other items. Nail clippers, a pack of q-tips, a pack of cotton balls, and two boxes. One of tampons, and one of pads. Keith gives Shiro a baffled look.

"I got used to it when Allura stayed with me." Shiro shrugs. "Pidge usually ends up crashing here if she comes to visit, too. So I keep supplies, in case."

"Oh." Keith helps himself to Shiro's toothpaste. Mouth full of froth, he asks, "Is it okay if I take a shower?"

"Go ahead." Shiro can feel the morning vibrating in his muscles. He'd skipped his workout on Friday. "I was thinking of going for a run."

Keith's brows go up; he spits, rinses his mouth, and only then makes a face.

"I could swing by the bakery and pick up bagels," Shiro suggests.

"In that case, I'm going back to bed." Keith tugs Shiro down for a morning kiss.

Between the mint on Keith's tongue, the chill air against Shiro's back and the heat of Keith's body against his front, thoughts of running go right out of Shiro's head.

"Maybe I should stay in, this morning." Shiro grins at Keith's huff, and walks them backwards towards the bedroom. "Besides, I want to put my arm back on."

Keith's response sounds appreciative, but maybe that's because Shiro's hand is on his ass, digging fingers into the muscled flesh. Shiro's dick is hard enough to smear wet across Keith's upper hip. Keith's fingers crawl up and down Shiro's back, in time with Keith's tongue dipping into Shiro's mouth, tasting and pulling away to chew on Shiro's lower lip. Just as Shiro's ready to haul Keith back to bed, Keith pulls away with a frown.

"Hold that thought," Keith says. "Forgot the real reason I got up. Gotta piss, too."

Shiro laughs, enjoying the sight of his handprint on Keith's bare ass. He heads into the bedroom, picking up his clothes and gathering the pieces of his arm. Keith returns in time to help with the sock, and Shiro slides the bicep-clasp into place. He slides the rest of the arm onto his stump, shoving the casing up until it hooks into the clasp.

It takes a moment for sensation to ripple through him, and Shiro clenches his muscles. The fingers of the prosthesis curl up, tightening into a fist, then relax. Shiro gives Keith a lopsided grin, delighted to see Keith's cock is rising.

"Any plans for today?" Shiro asks, as Keith crawls forward to straddle Shiro's lap. "We haven't been to the zoo."

"We have plans already." Keith presses in close, shuddering as their cocks rub together. "You still haven't laid me out in your kitchen, and you haven't fucked me over the back of your sofa, either."

"I'll mark it on the calendar." Shiro gets his hands under Keith's ass, massaging gently with all ten fingers. "Sore?"

"Not too bad." Keith rises up and shoves Shiro flat on his back. "I'll live."

Shiro can't resist the impulse, one he's rarely been inclined to chase. He can't even remember the last time he did, only that it didn't seem worth the trouble. With Keith, though, he can't see that it'd be trouble, or worth anything less than everything.

With a heave, Shiro raises Keith up in the air, grinning at Keith's surprised yelp. Shiro spreads his legs and Keith gets the hint, bringing his legs down between Shiro's, and Shiro hooks his heels on the edge of the mattress.

"You sure," Keith asks, breathlessly. "Where's—"

"Second drawer," Shiro says, pointing without looking.

He makes a grab for Keith, but Keith dodges him, reaching for the drawer. The move puts Keith's ass in arm's reach, and Shiro takes full advantage until Keith settles back into place. He drops two condoms and the lube next to Shiro's hip.

Shiro frowns. "Two? I don't sleep around that much."

"Planning ahead. You had something else in mind?"

"Only things involving you fucking me."

Shiro raises one leg, getting it over Keith's shoulder, then the other one. Keith's head is down, watching what he's doing. Shiro whines deep in his throat; he works hard to be patient but he sees no reason for the self-control. Not with Keith.

Cool, slick fingers slide along the cleft of Shiro's ass, and he flexes involuntarily. Keith runs soothing fingers across Shiro's stomach, and Shiro exhales right as Keith's finger slides into him.

"Oh, god," Shiro moans, rocking his hips. "Come on."

Keith laughs. "You're the one always saying to be patient."

"A time—" Shiro squeezes his eyes shut tight, gasping as Keith's finger goes away, comes back even slicker. The pleasure ripples through Shiro's ass and pools in his groin. "And place," he continues, "for—" He breaks off with a moan. " _Please_."

Keith scoots forward, pulling Shiro's legs upwards, curling Shiro's hips upwards. Something much larger than fingers pressed at Shiro's ass. Shiro flails for a second, grabbing hold of Keith's arms. His teeth press into his lip as he exhales, willing his body to relax enough. Keith thrusts, once, shallow, and the head of Keith's cock presses into Shiro.

"Shit," Shiro breathes, eyes coming open. Keith's head is down, eyes closed, and for a moment every sensation falls away, replaced by simple awe.

He's in love with this man, and he's loved in return.

Keith slides in the rest of the way, groan audible, fingernails digging into Shiro's thighs. Shiro pants, letting the burning stretch ease into a fullness that seems to reach up through him to nestle under his heart. Delicious, agonizing, and not enough.

"Move," Shiro says, and bears down, hard.

"Oh, fuck." Keith's eyes don't quite roll back in his head, though he looks close. He pulls out and slams back in with a loud groan.

Fire dances up Shiro's spine. Just enough friction from the drag of Keith's cock, then Keith widens his stance. The next thrust hits Shiro's prostate exactly and Shiro arches his back with a wordless cry. Pleasure ricochets through his body. Keith plants his hands on either side of Shiro's shoulders, hips pumping in earnest.

Shiro manages to get his arms around Keith's neck, pulling himself upwards to nuzzle the base of Keith's neck. Keith catches hold of Shiro's cock and Shiro almost yells again, every nerve lighting up. Keith pumps it in time with each quick thrust, jackhammer motions that drive the air from Shiro's lungs. 

Keith cries out, a desperate sound, and incredibly picks up the pace. Almost brutal, driving aftershocks through Shiro. Keith's moaning reaches a crescendo, ending in a cry. He shoves in deep, hips slamming into Shiro's ass enough to shove Shiro across the bed. Keith follows, shuddering, pushing harder, deeper. Shiro holds on as the orgasm barrels through him, his body convulsing. Liquid splashes across his stomach.

Keith pulls away with a regretful moan, slipping out of Shiro's ass. He drops down onto Shiro, angling for a kiss. At first sloppy and desperate, then gentling into something lazier as they both come down from the high. Keith's breathing is ragged, but his expression is as open and content as Shiro's ever seen. Keith sits back, fingers sweeping up and down the cleft of Shiro's ass. His finger slides in again, startling Shiro.

"Keith, what—" Shiro breaks off as Keith curls his fingers and hits that spot, again.

Echoes of pleasure boomerang through Shiro. He tenses, relaxes, tenses, riding the motions. Until it's simply too much; he shivers, keening, overwhelmed. Keith takes mercy, withdrawing his fingers and wiping them on the pillowcase.

"Easier to wash than the duvet," Keith says, dismissing Shiro's grimace. Keith runs his fingers through the mess on Shiro's stomach, looking at Shiro from under his sweat-soaked bangs, eyes amused. "So. Shower, then breakfast, then flip a coin to see who gets fucked over the sofa, first?"

Shiro laughs. "You're determined to do that, aren't you."

"Been waiting four months," Keith admits, offering his hand to help Shiro sit up. "Can't say something like that and not deliver."

Shiro sits up with a groan. "I can assure you, that won't be a problem." His ass doesn't hurt half as much as the muscles in his back and thighs. Time to get back into a better stretching routine. "Wait, we forgot something."

"We did?" Keith looks around, brows raised.

Shiro pulls him close for a deep kiss. It lasts just long enough for the blood to start filling Shiro's cock again, but that can wait. He's still thrumming from the pleasure of what he's already had. Shiro runs his tongue across Keith's canines and pulls away to nibble on Keith's lower lip. 

"Good morning," Shiro says. "I love you."

Keith's cheeks go pink, and he drops his head to lean on Shiro's shoulder. He kisses Shiro's neck, and whispers the words in return, against Shiro's skin.

 

 

 

Showering together is a new experience for both, but Shiro's reluctant to mess around for too long. His arm is designed to handle all but full immersion, but too much steam isn't any better. He steps out first, and dresses in comfortable jeans and an old university sweatshirt. He sets on the kettle for Keith, and is halfway through stripping the bed when Keith wanders in, half-dressed, towelling his hair absently. The tea kettle whistles, and Shiro heads to the kitchen, dropping the laundry outside the closet to deal with later.

Keith ends up making omelets for them, commandeering the kitchen with an ease that makes Shiro's stomach flip over multiple times. It's not from hunger. Nor lust. It's something more, that had always been missing.

No, not missing. He's had seven years of physical and emotional therapy; his doctorate might be a kind of academic therapy, too. He no longer thinks of himself as lacking, in that simple physical sense. He's a man with five fingers at the end of his left arm, and a stump at the end of his right arm. Even a prosthesis doesn't change that reality.

"My right hand," Shiro says, out loud, startled by the revelation.

"What's that?" Keith looks up from flipping the omelets. He pokes at each, getting them adjusted just so.

Shiro shakes his head, not sure how to explain. Keith fits so perfectly in every way that matters, and while there are places Shiro is sure will rub wrong at first, it's much like getting fitted for a prosthesis. A complementary joining that grows comfortable over time.

But it can begin that way, too. Then it'll only get better. Shiro leans against the counter, watching Keith search the upper cabinets for the plates and set them out. A right hand. What can Shiro be, in return?

He has no idea, only that he can't wait to find out.

Keith glances over at the table, and brings down two juice glasses. "I saw you have orange—"

"Marry me," Shiro says.

"Juice…" Keith stares, sniffs at a hint of burning, and leaps to shut off the burner. He slides the omelets onto the plates, sets down the pan, and turns his full attention onto Shiro. "What?"

"Marry me," Shiro says, grinning. "Say you'll marry me."

"I don't—" Keith looks around, wildly, but he doesn't seem annoyed or uninterested, only surprised. "That seems kinda fast."

"Does it? We've been friends for months." Shiro faces Keith, one hand on the counter, the other on his hip, and leans teasingly into Keith's space. "I wanted you from the first time I saw you. I wanted to be with you from the first time I talked to you. Nothing's changed except for knowing I want both for the rest of my life."

"Well," Keith says, slowly. "We _are_ compatible in bed."

"And on furniture," Shiro adds.

"We don't know that yet." Keith picks up the plates. "Did you want orange juice or not?"

"If I say yes, will you marry me?"

Keith sidesteps him. "Breakfast is getting cold."

Shiro laughs, fills the glasses, and follows Keith to the table. The omelet's good, and the thought of doing this with Keith every morning before work makes Shiro grin even wider. Keith eyes him, mildly suspicious; after a long swallow of the juice, Keith sets down the glass with a thump.

"Would you stop," he says, but a grin's teasing at the corner of his mouth. "I can't eat when you're looking at me like that."

"Is that a yes?" Shiro asks.

Keith rolls his eyes. "Maybe."

"Maybe a yes, or a maybe-maybe?" Shiro rests his chin on his fist, and forks the last of the egg into his mouth. Elbows on the table would annoy Colleen, but it doesn't have the same effect on Keith. Shiro will have to think of something else, then.

"We have two leases," Keith says.

"True." Shiro grins. "But you have a month-to-month lease."

Keith considers that. "My building has a parking garage."

"The Harley's not _that_ big." Shiro knows his grin's getting wider. He's winning. "We can fit both in the storage unit."

"My apartment's at the back, so I never hear road traffic."

"It's also a studio, while this is a a two-bedroom apartment." Shiro finishes off his orange juice. "Third floor means I probably hear less than your first-floor apartment."

Keith sets down his fork. "You might get bored having me around."

Finally to the heart of the matter. Shiro shakes his head. "I'm more worried about the opposite, but even then, nope."

"The opposite?"

"My life consists of getting up in the morning, going running, going to work, going to the gym, coming home to dinner and a book, and going to bed." Shiro stands, collecting their plates. "A weekend used to mean grading papers. Now it means… well, it meant reading. Until we started doing things on the weekends."

Keith frowns, thinking hard. "That's just a routine. Doesn't mean it's boring."

"Is that a yes?" Shiro sets the plates in the sink and leans against the island. He can't seem to wipe the grin off his face.

"I want to get a television to watch movies," Keith says.

Shiro shrugs. "As long as it's not the bedroom, it doesn't bother me. And not on all the time."

"I have a lot of stuff, and there's no place to put it," Keith warns.

"You have some stuff," Shiro corrects him. "We can turn the second bedroom into your study, if you're okay with it being used as a guest room on holidays."

"Holidays?" Keith's brows shoot up, and he finally stands, bringing the glasses to the sink. "You mean… like Christmas?"

"And Thanksgiving. New Year's, maybe. Fourth of July, we'll go to the Holts, unless your Mom wants us to see her. We could alternate."

"You do a tree, and everything?" Something in Keith's expression is curiously apprehensive.

"Actually, I never have before." Shiro shuts off the water and rolls up his sleeves, digging in the side drawer for the glove to protect his arm. "But if you say yes, we could start shopping for decorations now, and have enough to cover a tree by December."

"I'll do that, you dry," Keith says, edging him neatly out of the way.

"You will?" Shiro's happy to misinterpret. "Is that a yes?"

Keith shoots him a look, a smile tugging at his lips. "How many times are you going to ask?"

"As many times as it takes."

Keith stares at him, then laughs. "Fine."

"Fine?" Shiro's heart leaps, but he wants to be sure. "Does that mean—"

"Yes." Keith places his soapy hands on Shiro's cheeks and pulls him down for a quick kiss. "Yes."

For a moment, Shiro can't breathe, then it hits him. He wraps his arms around Keith and buries his face against Keith's neck. His hands won't hold still, shaking against Keith's back.

"Shiro?" Keith winds his arms around Shiro's shoulders, stroking Shiro's hair and down to the nape of his neck. "Are you—"

"Yes," Shiro says, breathing against Keith's neck.

He wipes his eyes on Keith's shirt, trying to be subtle about it, and raises his head. Too overcome, he kisses Keith again, tongue dipping between Keith's lips, tasting the man he loves. From the bedroom, Shiro's phone lets out a shriek, and Shiro breaks the kiss with a groan.

"Pidge," he says.

"Go on." Keith shoos him away. "Go deal with your sister."

 

 

 

Shiro doesn't bother telling Pidge the news; he won't be distracted from making Pidge clean up her own mess—especially after she admits she'd turned off the phone and spent all night playing some kind of strip version of a video game with Lance. Once Pidge breaks down and accepts she's going to have to deal with Matt herself, Shiro ends the call quickly.

He remains sitting on the sofa arm, staring down at the phone. Just thinking about it has his hands shaking again, and he's glad of Keith joining him. Shiro spreads his legs to make room for Keith, and leans his head against Keith's chest.

"There's someone I need to tell," Shiro says. "Are you okay with that?"

"Go ahead. I'm waiting to see if you survive before I call my mom."

Shiro takes a deep breath and dials. He keeps it on speaker phone so Keith can hear. Lotor and Allura are gone for the weekend. Shiro will have to tell them on Monday. But there's one call that shouldn't wait.

"Please don't change your mind once you hear this," Shiro says.

Keith kisses him on the forehead, as Colleen picks up with a cheery hello.

"Is Dad around?" Shiro asks. "Could you get him on the line, too?"

"Sweetie?" Colleen asks. "Is everything alright?"

"It's fine, I just have news."

Colleen yells in the background for Sam. A minute later he joins the call.

"I asked Keith to marry me," Shiro says.

There's a silence on the line, until Sam clears his throat.

"You need to tell us if he said yes," Sam says.

"Uh." Shiro laughs, nervously. "He did. I mean, he does." He glances up at Keith, who rolls his eyes. "It's still a yes."

"Congratulations, sweetie, and hello, Keith. You two need to come down some weekend." Colleen hums; she's probably checking the calendar. "Sam's got a conference in Boston next week, but we're both home the weekend after that."

"That's Thanksgiving." Shiro glances up at Keith, questioning.

Keith gives him an uncertain nod and mouths, _My mom_.

"Excellent timing," Colleen declares. "We'll put you in the basement guest room, then, for privacy."

"Mom," Shiro protests. "My room should be—"

"No, that'll be for that young man Pidge is seeing." Colleen sounds too satisfied. "Have you two decided on a date, yet?"

"Is eloping out of the question?" Shiro asks.

"Absolutely," Sam and Colleen say in unison.

"Maybe…" Shiro looks up at Keith.

"New Year's Eve?" Keith asks.

"Ah," Sam says.

Shiro isn't sure what that means. "Is that too soon?"

"We'll figure it out." Colleen's smile is unmistakable. "Welcome to the family, Keith. I do hope you can come for Thanksgiving. We're looking forward to meeting our future son-in-law."

 

 

 

With Shiro's family notified, it's Keith's turn. He settles on the sofa beside Shiro to call Krolia, who not only immediately assumes it's Shiro, she also assumes he's listening. And she doesn't seem bothered, either. Shiro's not sure how to take the fact that she sounds downright pleased.

To Shiro's surprise, Keith next calls Kolivan. An unfamiliar voice picks up.

'Antok," Keith says. "I have news. Is Kolivan around? Could you both get on, so I can tell you at once?"

"Hold on." There's noises of a conversation in the background, muffled, then Antok returns. "We're both here. Go ahead."

Shiro can't help himself. He curls an arm around Keith's waist, heart thudding all over again with the way Keith fits just right.

"I'm getting married," Keith says.

"Did you have someone in mind?" Antok asks. "Or did you mean in general?"

"Antok." Kolivan's tone is flat, and to Shiro's ears, a bit long-suffering.

"Yes," Keith says. "His name is Takashi Shirogane, and—"

"Told you so," Kolivan says, muffled as though he'd tried to cover the speaker. "This means you do the dishes tonight."

Antok's deep voice echoes over the line. "Congratulations. Are the two of you free tomorrow? Come by for brunch. I need to meet this Shiro."

Keith gives Shiro a look, and Shiro waves it off. Whatever Keith chooses is fine by him.

"We can do that," Keith says.

 

 

 

The sofa isn't the most comfortable place to have sex. The fabric's too scratchy, but by the time Keith is done plowing Shiro until he nearly blanks out from pleasure, Shiro's not caring.

He collapses face down, bent over the sofa back, left hand still clenched around his softening dick. Keith drapes himself across Shiro, breathing just as hard. Shiro laughs weakly, half at Keith's pretense at exhaustion, and half from the strange satisfaction that he'd paid extra to make sure the sofa came with stain protection. Keith eventually stands, both hands on Shiro's waist until he gets his balance. Then he swears under his breath.

"What's wrong?" Shiro looks over his shoulder, but Keith isn't staring at himself, or Shiro. He's frowning at the floor.

"I think we just lost the deposit," Keith says.

Shiro looks around. They'd moved the sofa about three feet, and it's pressed up against the coffee table. The movement left gouges in the wood floor.

"Whoops," Shiro says.

 

 

 

Their conversation lulls comfortably, picking up again when the mood strikes them, as if there'd been no pause at all. There were a flurry of afternoon texts, notifying all parties of their holiday schedules. Thanksgiving with the Holts, Christmas at Shiro's. Krolia wants them to come visit between, somehow. Shiro handles most of the calls, while Keith works on homework.

Keith takes a break around mid-afternoon, and settles down beside Shiro, curling up as Shiro slings an arm over his shoulder. Keith picks up right where they'd last left off, talking about the three-hour drive to Krolia's house. Shiro's well aware there's an airport large enough to have direct flights, though Keith hadn't pressed that point.

All Keith says is, "It's a quick flight. Forty-five minutes, tops."

That's all it takes. It's the first time since they've met that Shiro can feel himself retreating, hard. It's a struggle to remind himself it's safe.

"Shiro?" Keith's expression settles into worried lines, then clears. "Oh. I didn't realize."

"No, it's nothing—" Shiro stops. "It's not nothing. I just—I can't take being a passenger. Panic attacks. And I don't—" Just thinking about it is making his throat tight. "I don't want to fly. It's too—I don't know what'll happen."

Keith's silent for a bit, mulling it over. He leans his head on Shiro's shoulder, and Shiro dares to think the topic's ended.

"My birthday was in October," Keith says.

"What?" Shiro thinks back. Keith had never said anything, to anyone. "Why didn't you say so—"

"I don't celebrate it." Keith sighs. "For a long time, it wasn't a day anyone remembered. But… now I do. I will. And I know what I want for my birthday."

Shiro braces himself. He won't go on a commercial airline. Bad enough to contemplate dealing with a panic attack, but to go through that with three hundred onlookers would be humiliation too great to bear.

"I want to see you fly," Keith says. "In the simulator. Just once."

"Keith," Shiro whispers.

"You can say no. I'm just saying… you wouldn't have cared about your record, if you didn't love flying. I want to see you fly, just once." Keith leans into Shiro, resting his forehead against Shiro's neck. "Eleven months, Shiro. You can work your way up to it. We can talk to Pidge, too. She might know a way to modify the simulator so we do it together."

"Together?" The thought had never occured to Shiro, but if there was anyone he'd consider as a co-pilot, Keith was it.

"Military jets are two-seaters, aren't they? Pilot in the front, and some guy in the back."

"RIO," Shiro says, automatically. "Radar Intercept Officer. I don't know, Keith."

"You have time to figure it out," Keith says, unbothered. "I want to see you fly. And if I can fly with you... there's no place I'd rather be."

 

 

 

The panic lingers, despite Shiro's best efforts. Each time Keith is there, an arm around Shiro's waist, a hand on his shoulder, a touch that grounds Shiro and warms him all over again. After dinner, they end up on the sofa, carefully pushed back to its proper spot. Shiro leans against one arm, reading, while Keith's on the opposite end, laptop open and doing homework. Around nine, Keith set the laptop aside and stretches widely.

Shiro sets the bookmark in place and closes the book. "Why New Year's Eve?"

"Is that too soon?" Keith slides down until his feet are in Shiro's armpits.

"Just wondering why then."

"The easy answer…" Keith yawns. "Every year, there'll be fireworks on our anniversary. And everyone celebrating us."

Shiro snorts, amused. "Does that mean there's a non-easy answer?"

"Yeah." Keith takes a deep breath, and heads for the bedroom.

Shiro follows, crouching down beside Keith, who sits cross-legged with his bag in his lap.

"This goes with me everywhere," Keith says. "It's the only way I've made sure it's always been safe." He brings out a small bundle of fabric, holding it out.

Shiro takes the item and sits as well, checking Keith's expression again before he unwraps it. A plain red bandana; within it, another piece of fabric, yellowed and delicate. Shiro unrolls it, studying the embroidered phrase. 

 _Hope_  
_smiles from the threshold of the year to come_  
_whispering ‘It will be happier.’_

"My first foster mother made it, for the first and only Christmas I was with her," Keith says. "That's when she told me how she'd put out an ad on the nearby base, asking about my mother. We both hoped we'd hear something by New Year's."

"I'm sorry you didn't." Shiro rolls the piece back up, careful of the dangling threads on the back. "We can get it framed, if you want. It deserves to be seen. It's lovely."

"After she got ill, I couldn't bring myself to look at it again for a long time. It hurt, feeling like I had no hope. Until I realized that's what she'd tried to give me." Keith's smile is crooked. "Like you have."

Shiro looks up at that, startled and touched. All he can do is smile, and hope that's enough.

"New Year's Eve," Keith says. "I want to every year to start like that, with you."

Shiro leans forward for a kiss. It starts chaste, until Shiro gets his hand up to cradle Keith's jaw, and the kiss deepens. Keith's tongue meets Shiro's, tangling and tasting, until they're both panting. Keith kisses the corner of Shiro's mouth, then his cheek, and rests against Shiro, quiet for a moment. Shiro runs his fingers through Keith's hair, combing the unruly strands.

"I can't wait," Shiro says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it's done! come say hello [on tumblr](https://sol1056.tumblr.com), if you're in the neighborhood. :D


End file.
